I: 


TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 
IN  THE  ROCKIES 


BOOKS  BY  STEPHEN  GRAHAM 

THE      GENTLE      ART      OF 

TRAMPING 

THE     DIVIDING     LINE 

OF     EUROPE 

IN      QUEST     OF     EL     DORADO 

TRAMPING    WITH    A      POET 

IN     THE     ROCKIES 

E CHOP E - W H IT H E R      BOUND? 

THE    CHALLENGE    OF    THE    DEAD 

CHILDREN     OF     THE     SLAVES 

A     PRIVATE    IN     THE    GUARDS 

THE     QUEST     OF     THE     FACE 

RUSSIA     IN      1916 

PRIEST    OF    THE    IDEAL 

THROUGH      RUSSIAN      C  E  N  T  R  A  L 

ASIA 

THE  WAY  OF  MARTHA  AND 

THE  WAY  OF  MARY 

RUSSIA     AND     THE      WORLD 

WITH     POOR     EMIGRANTS 

TO     AMERICA 

WITH    THE    RUSSIAN     PILGRIMS 

TO     JERUSALEM 

CHANGING     RUSSIA 

A     tramp's    SKETCHES 

UNDISCOVERED      RUSSIA 

A     VAGABOND     IN     THE 

CAUCASUS 

gT.    VITUS    DAY 


TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 
IN  THE  ROCKIES 


BY 

STEPHEN  GRAHAM 

AUTHOR    OF    "EUROPE — WHITHER    BOUND? 
WITH  THIRTY-EIGHT  EMBLEMS  BY 

VERNON  HILL 


D.  APPLETON-CENTURY  COMPANY 

INCORPORATED 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 

1936 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


All  rights  reserved.  This  book,  or  parts 
thereof,  must  not  be  reproduced  in  any 
form  ivithout  permission  of  the  publisher. 


PRINTED     IN     THE     UNITED     STATES     OF     AMERICA 


F 


1  PREFACE 

Ed 

Vachel  Lindsay  is  the  poet.  He  is  best  known 
as  the  author  of  General  William  Booth  Enters 
Heaven,  The  Congo  and  Johnny  Appleseed.  He 
also  wrote  a  highly  comical  piece  called  The  Dan- 
iel Jazz.  He  is  a  wonderful  reciter,  and  is  aided 
by  a  sonorous,  heaven-reaching  voice.  All  his 
poems  are  written  to  be  read  aloud,  chanted,  or 
declaimed;  in  some  cases  they  are  written  to  be 
danced  also,  and  played  as  games.  In  many  of 
his  recitations  the  audience  is  called  upon  to  take 
part  in  choruses  and  refrains.  Thus,  in  one  poem, 
when  Lindsay  says,  "I've  been  to  Palestine,"  the 
audience  as  one  man  has  to  cry  back  to  him,  "What 
E  did  you  see  in  Palestine?"  This  is  rapturously 
v  enjoyed  by  the  audience.  When  you  have  heard 
the  poet  you  can  well  understand  that  he  did  not 
starve  when  he  used  to  tramp  in  America  and 
recite  to  the  farmers  for  a  meal  and  a  night's 
lodging.     He  has  gained  a  great  popularity. 

He  is,  however,  something  more  than  an  enter- 
tainer. He  has  a  spiritual  message  to  the  world, 
and  is  deeply  in  earnest.  In  a  large  experience  of 
men  and  women  in  many  countries,  I  have  rarely 
met  such  a  rebel  against  vulgarity,  materialism, 

v 


vi  PREFACE 

and  the  modern  artificial  way  of  life.  At  the 
same  time,  despite  his  poetry,  he  is  almost  inartic- 
ulate. He  has  helped  me,  and  here  in  a  way  I 
help  him  by  giving  in  a  new  form  part  of  the 
richness  of  his  thoughts  and  his  opinions. 

Vachel  Lindsay  visited  England  in  1920,  and 
recited  his  poems  at  Oxford  and  Cambridge  and 
to  several  groups  of  friends  in  London.  His 
mother,  Catharine  Frazee  Lindsay,  who  accom- 
panied him,  was  a  notable  woman  in  Springfield, 
Illinois,  in  religious  and  progressive  activities. 
She  succumbed  to  an  attack  of  pneumonia  this  year. 
But  those  who  met  her  in  this  country  recognised 
in  her  a  remarkable  figure.  At  Vachel's  invitation 
I  visited  Springfield  last  summer,  and  we  went  to 
the  Rockies,  and  tramped  together  to  Canada, 
and  this  volume  is  a  record  of  our  holiday.  A 
mutual  friend  of  ours  is  Christopher  Morley,  who 
brought  us  together  in  1919.  When  he  heard  of 
our  projected  expedition  he  interposed  to  get  some 
letters  for  the  New  York  Evening  Post.  Some 
thirty-two  of  these  were  written,  mostly  by  the 
camp  fire  or  sitting  on  the  rocks  in  the  sun,  and 
were  printed  in  the  Post,  where  they  attracted 
considerable  attention.  "Centurion"  in  the  Cen- 
tury Magazine  for  August  wrote:  "Mr.  Lindsay 
and  Mr.  Graham  are  having  a  glorious  time.  As 
for  those  of  us  who  must  spend  the  dog-days  ift 
stuffy  cities  and  stuffier  offices,  the  picture  of  the 


PREFACE  vii 

two  of  them  by  a  camp  fire  in  the  Rockies  waking 
to  the  freshness  and  glory  of  a  mountain  dawn  is 
— well,  if  there  are  no  future  issues  of  the  Cen- 
tury Magazine,  you  may  be  sure  that  the  entire 
staff,  inspired  by  this  example,  has  started  vaga- 
bonding." Another,  a  facetious  scribe,  wrote: 
"It  is  conceded  by  everyone  that  Stephen  Gra- 
ham's Tramping  with  a  Poet  will  some  day  stand 
on  the  shelf  of  open-air  literature  beside  Travels 
with  a  Donkey." 

My  thanks  are  due  to  the  representatives  of  the 
Great  Northern  Railway  of  America,  at  St.  Paul, 
who  gave  us  a  wonderful  collection  of  pictures, 
maps,  and  books,  when  they  heard  we  were  going, 
on  the  subject  of  Glacier  Park,  which  we  tramped 
through.  In  fact,  the  railway  company  would 
have  done  a  great  deal  for  us,  but  we  eluded  their 
kind  care,  as  was  our  wish,  and  got  out  entirely 
on  our  own. 

As  Vachel  Lindsay  was  an  art  student  before 
he  was  a  poet,  and  wrote  his  first  verses  as  scrolls 
to  be  illuminated  below  emblematic  figures,  we 
naturally  discussed  emblems  and  emblematic  art 
and  hieroglyphics  as  we  tramped  together.  The 
emblems  in  this  book  are  an  attempt  to  express 
that  side  of  our  mutual  experience.  They  have 
been  done  by  my  friend,  Vernon  Hill,  who  drew 
once  that  very  precious  work,  "The  Arcadian  Cal- 
endar." 


viii  PREFACE 

One  of  the  poems  is  by  "Rusticus,"  who,  anent 
our  adventures,  contributed  it  to  the  New  York 
Evening  Post. 

A  last  point:  Vachel  is  pronounced  to  rhyme 
with  Rachel,  and  is  spelt  with  one  1.  It  does  not 
rhyme  with  satchel.  The  poet  asked  me  to  tell 
you  that. 

Stephen  Graham 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.     Tramping  Again     .....  i 

II.     Finding  the  Poet 7 

III.  Taking  the  Road 14 

IV.  First  Nights  Out 21 

V.     Going  Up  to  the  Snow     ...  28 

VI.     Different  Ways  of  Going  Down- 
ward         34 

VII.     Silenced  by  the  Mountains  .      .  40 

VIII.     Night    and    Nothing    on    the 

Mountains        47 

IX.     "Wife,     Give     Me     the     Pain- 
Killer"         54 

X.     Clear  Blue        62 

XL     National  Wildernesses   ...  71 

XII.     Going  West TJ 

XIII.  Climbing  Red  Eagle   ....  82 

XIV.  Doing  the  Impossible      ...  89 
XV.     People  in   Camp 95 

XVI.     Visited  by   Bears 101 

XVII.    Lindsay's  Stone  Coffee  .     .     .  108 

ix 


X 

CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

XVIII. 

Making  Maps  of  the  World 

PAGE 

.     114 

XIX. 

A  Mountain  Point  of  View  . 

.     121 

XX. 

By   the    Camp    Fire    . 

.     127 

XXI. 

Down  Cataract  Mountain   . 

•     133 

XXII. 

"Go  West,  Young  Man"  . 

•     139 

XXIII. 

The  Sun-Worshippers 

.     146 

XXIV. 

•     151 

XXV. 

Stopped  by  the  Clouds     . 

.     158 

XXVI. 

Lindsay  on  Roosevelt 

>     165 

XXVII. 

■     171 

XXVIII. 

Johnny  Appleseed 

.     177 

XXIX. 

,     184 

XXX. 

Toward  the  Kootenai 

.     190 

XXXI. 

As  the  Sparks  Fly  Upward  . 

.     196 

XXXII. 

The  Star  of  Springfield  . 

.     201 

XXXIII. 

Flat  Top  Mountain    . 

•     213 

XXXIV. 

Crossing  the  Canadian  Line 

.     221 

XXXV. 

•     231 

XXXVI. 

•     239 

XXXVII. 

A  Visit  to  the  Mormons     . 

•     247 

XXXVIIf 

"Bloom  For  Ever,  O  Republic 

!"    274 

TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 
IN  THE  ROCKIES 


I.    TRAMPING  AGAIN 


Well,  it's  good  to  be  going  tramping  again. 
I've  been  sitting  in  European  cafes  and  reading 
newspapers  half  a  year,  from  Constantinople  to 
Berlin,  and  I've  only  stretched  my  legs  when 
in  strange  cities  I  needed  to  find  a  hotel, 
beating  it  pleasurelessly  on  asphalt.  Last 
autumn,  yes,  I  was  tramping  over  the  ruins 
and  wreck  of  the  war  in  France,  and  the  year 
before  that  walked  across  Georgia  on  the  track 

I 


2  TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

of  old  Sherman.  But  with  a  purpose,  and  in 
lands  where  after  all  there  are  hotels,  and  one 
pulls  the  blinds  down  when  the  stars  appear. 

But  now  I've  had  a  real  call  from  Hesperus 
and  the  wilds,  and  am  off  with  a  knapsack  and 
a  pot  and  a  blanket,  and  a  free  mind — yes,  and,  I 
confess,  a  few  yards  of  mosquito  netting.  I've  left 
a  notice,  "Not  at  home,"  at  my  Soho  flat,  though 
I  don't  spend  much  time  there,  anyhow;  "Back  in 
half  an  hour  or  so,"  and  there  are  already 
four  thousand  miles  between  my  arm-chair  and 
me. 

And  as  I  hasten  to  the  West  the  link  stretches, 
stretches.  Not  that  my  flat  could  ever  be  lasting 
home.  Where  the  lady  of  your  heart  is,  there  is 
home!  And  where  is  she  not?  The  worst  thing 
man  ever  did  to  man  was  to  nail  him  down.  So 
hail  to  all  things  and  men  which  move  and  keep 
moving. 

I  AM  called  by  one  of  the  most  wonderful 
men  who  ever  broke  silence  with  a  song. 
He  belongs  to  the  same  sub-species.  Yes, 
a  tramping  species.  His  hat  has  got  a  hole  in 
it,  and  so  have  his  breeches.  But  he  is  a  poet, 
and  he   sings  of  what   the   world   will  be   when 


TRAMPING    AGAIN  3 

the  years  have  passed  away.  He  can  charm 
a  supper  out  of  a  farmer  with  a  song.  And  I 
who  have  tramped  without  music  know  what 
a  miracle  that  is.  They  always  said  to  me, 
"Chop  this  wood,"  or  "Turn  that  hay,"  or 
"If  a  man   do  not  work,   then  neither   shall   he 


eat." 


Grande  erreur,  Mr.  Farmer ! 

"Well,  /  can't  take  to  the  road,"  says 
Mrs.  Farmer.  "Look  at  me ! — it's  wuk,  wuk, 
wuk,  all  day!"  Mrs.  Farmer  was  born  on  a 
Saturday.  I  always  feel  sorry  for  Saturday's 
children.  They  were  born  a  day  before  I  was. 
For  I  was  born  on  a  Sunday.  How  sadly  we 
used  to  intone  it  when  we  were  children — 
"Saturday's  child  works  hard  for  his  living!" 
And  then  the  relief,  "But  the  child  who  is 
born  on  the  good  Sunday,  is  happy  and  loving 
and  blithe  and  gay."  That  is  the  tramp-baby, 
born  on  the  day  of  rest. 

I  AM  sitting  at  this  moment  in  the  St.  Louis 
train  heading  for  Missouri.  The  little  negro 
marionette  with  set  smile  and  the  borrowed 
voice  of  a  ventriloquist  has  offered  coffee,  ice- 
cream, oranges,  without  response,   and  now  the 


4  TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

car-conductor  has  just  put  into  my  hand  a 
tract.  It  is  entitled  "Millions  Now  Living 
Will  Never  Die,"  and  costs  25  cents. 

"The  emphatic  announcement  that  millions 
now  living  on  earth  will  never  die  must  seem 
presumptuous  to  many  people;  but  when  the 
evidence  is  carefully  considered  I  believe  that 
almost  every  fair  mind  will  concede  that  the 
conclusion  is  a  reasonable  one."  So  the  book 
begins.  And  you  who  are  spiritually  a  citizen 
of  Missouri  will  doubtless  require,  like  doubting 
Thomas  of  old,  to  be  shown  the  very  truth  in 
substance  and  reality. 

But  the  car-conductor  has  made  a  mistake. 
I  have  not  read  this  book,  but  I  believe. 
Though  I  have  not  seen,  I  believe  and  am 
blessed.  And  though  in  the  Missouri  train, 
I  am  not  going  to  Missouri.  I  am  stepping 
off  at  Flora,  Illinois,  to  catch  the  Beardstown 
local  train  to  Springfield,  which  unlike  St. 
Louis  and  Jerusalem  and  Capernaum,  and 
perhaps  more  like  Tyre  and  Sidon,  is  a  city 
of  faith  where  they  have  bread  from  heaven 
to  eat. 

Not  that  I  am  staying  in  Springfield.  But 
there   I   pick  up   the   poet.      That   is   where    he 


TRAMPING  AGAIN  5 

haunts — "where  Lincoln  dreamed  in  Illinois." 
The  poet  thinks  that  the  world  could  be  re- 
generated from  a  centre  in  Illinois — this 
beautiful  state  upon  which  Chicago  has  thought 
fit  to  rear  its  awful  form. 

Some  one  of  Illinois,  not  the  poet,  wrote  to 
me,  "What  do  you  think  of  Springfield  as  a  centre 
of  world  thought?"  Now  I  know  the  craze  of 
"Boost  your  home  town"  can  be,  and  often  is, 
carried  to  excess,  and  little  Springfield  is  not  even 
on  a  main  line  from  New  York.  But  neither 
is  Bethlehem  nor  the  human  heart.  If  you 
want  to  regenerate  your  wicked  world  you  can 
begin  here  and  now — or,  to  use  the  language  of 
the  country,  put  your  hand  to  your  bosom 
and  say  it — "You  can  begin  right  here"  And 
then,  to  quote  the  poet  himself,  you  will 
have — 

Crossed  the  Appalachians, 

And  turned  to  blazing  warrior  souls 

Of  the  lazy  forest. 

Springfield  will  not  hold  us.  But  we  shall 
take  Springfield  with  us.  We  are  going  to 
take  it  in  our  hearts  and  place  it  on  the  top 
of  the  Rocky  Mountains,   at  the  Triple   Divide, 


6  TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

where  the  waters  of  the  new  world  flow  north 
and  east  and  west — 

«4r 


Going  tramping  again, 
Going  to  the  mountains, 

To  recapture  the  stars, 
To  meet  again  the  nymphs 

of  the  fountains. 
To  visit  the  bear, 
To  salute  the  eagles, 
To  he  kissed  all  night  by 
wild-flowers    in    the   grass! 


II.    FINDING   THE   POET 


Flora,  Illinois,  where  one  changes  for  Spring- 
field, has  a  Main  Street,  and,  like  many  a  little 
town  of  the  Middle  West  of  America,  looks 
rather  self-consciously  askance  at  visitors,  like 
the  village  that  voted  the  earth  was  flat  in 
Kipling's  tale.  For  the  novel  of  the  hour  is 
called  Main  Street  and  is  sold  to  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  people  and  read  by  every 
American  who  reads  anything,  and  is  bitterly 
or    jocularly    discussed    at    every    tea-table.      It 

7 


8  TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

sheds  a  bright  light  on  the  life  of  a  typical  little 
town  in  the  Middle  West.  It  names  the  town 
Gopher  Prairie — because  the  Middle  West  is 
prairie  land  and  the  gopher  rats  or  marmots 
live  there  in  myriads  in  their  little  burrows. 
The  novelist  seems  to  suggest  that  the  people 
themselves  are  a  species  of  gopher,  a  little 
people,  limited  of  view,  good-natured,  of  the 
earth  earthy,  but  always  bobbing-up.  Because 
of  the  criticism  implied  in  this  novel  the  Middle 
West  would  rather  now  be  called  the  "Central 
West." 

These  Main  Streets,  however,  except  for 
the  sophisticated  eyes  of  a  college  girl  in- 
auspiciously  married,  are  probably  not  so  bad 
as  the  realist  paints  them.  They  are  dull,  but 
genuine.  They  exhibit  our  modern  civilisation 
without  too  many  shams.  See  the  people 
working  in  the  heat.  The  minds  of  the  young 
are  set  on  their  dull  jobs  and  not  thinking  of 
drink  or  sex — it  is  sufficiently  wonderful.  There 
are  "Main  Street"  towns  in  every  country  in 
Europe,  and  life  is  dull  in  them  though  adorned 
by  fights  and  drinks  and  "hussies" — but  where 
will  you  find  such  an  unexhausted  elan  and 
zest  for  the  unornamented  reality  that  America 


FINDING   THE    POET  9 

affords?  Where  else  moreover  will  you  find 
the  working-men  to-day  working  in  silk  shirts? 
Life  in  Main  Street  seems  worth  while,  at  least 
to  those  who  live  there. 

It's  a  by-line  from  Flora  to  Springfield,  and 
you  plough  iron  slowly  through  Illinois  corn. 
An  old  mechanical  car-conductor  with  grey  straw 
hat  and  fat  stubby  face  calls  the  stations  one  by 
one  in  an  outlandish  accent  which  to  a  stranger 
is  entirely  baffling.  He  collects  the  tickets,  and 
if  you  are  for  Springfield  he  puts  a  red  check 
in  your  hat-band;  if  you  are  for  anywhere  else 
it  is  a  white  check.  Springfield  is  now  in  the 
mind's  eye  as  a  large  place  and  is  printed  every- 
where in  big  type.  The  Springfield  Register 
and  the  Springfield  Journal  make  showing. 

I  read  the  newspapers  and  then  tick  off  the 
names  of  the  stations  on  the  printed  time-table 
of  the  B.  and  O.  folder  and  patiently  await 
the  city  and  its  bard.  A  four-hour  journey  in 
a  slow  train  in  England  would  seem  intolerable, 
but  America  has  a  different  sense  of  time  and 
space,  and  a  long  time  is  not  thought  so  long. 
At  last,  in  the  late  dusk,  behold  Springfield, 
Illinois,    and    the    unmistakable    marble    of    the 


io        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

poet's  face  under  a  small  black  felt — "waitin' 
for  me,  prayin'  for  me,"  and  certainly  not  really 
believing  in  the  act  of  faith  which  can  bring 
the  mountain  to  Mahomet.  In  the  literary 
world  when  invitations  are  rife  there  is  a  golden 
rule — Promise  everything  and  do  just  what  you 
like.  So  one  never  really  knows  whether 
"Yes,  I'll  come,"  means  yea,  yea  or  nay,  nay. 

It  meant  yea,  yea  this  time,  and  so,  getting 
out  of  the  Beardstown  local  which  pulled  up  out- 
side the  station,  behold — two  strong  men  stand 
face  to  face  and  they  come  from  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  Vachel  Lindsay  rasped  out  sentences 
of  welcome  in  broad  Illinois  and  I  replied  in 
whispering  English,  and  we  bundled  along  Fifth 
Street  for  home.  Then  mother,  of  seventy 
years,  tiptoed  and  curtsied  and  smiled  with  the 
roguishness  of  a  young  maid,  and  brought  us 
in.  So  we  sit  now  on  rocking-chairs  and  talk 
while  beads  of  moisture  roll  ticklingly  adown  our 
brows,  and  it  is  home. 

Vachel  is  a  poetical  vagabond.  I  also  am  a 
vagabond.  There  lies  our  common  ground. 
He  is  an  old-fashioned  hiker  of  the  tramping 
parson  type.  He  leaves  home,  as  it  were  to 
post  a  letter,  and  does  a  thousand  or  so  miles. 


FINDING   THE    POET  n 

He  made  a  rule  once  to  travel  without  money, 
and  he  recited  his  poems  to  the  farmers  and  their 
wives  for  food  and  a  night's  lodging.  Like 
Weston,  who  tramped  with  ice-blocks  under  his 
hat  and  water  streaming  down  his  neck,  he  can 
do  his  twenty  miles  a  day  over  a  long  time  and 
has  travelled  some  huge  distances  in  his  day.  I  for 
my  part  hardly  believe  in  tramping  for  tramping's 
sake,  but  in  living  with  Nature  for  what  that  is 
worth. 

To  sleep  under  the  stars,  to  live  with  the  river 
that  sings  as  it  flows,  to  sit  by  the  embers  of  morn- 
ing or  evening  fire  and  just  dream  away  time  and 
earnestness,  to  gather  sticks  to  keep  the  old  pot 
a-boiling,  to  laze  into  the  company  of  strangers 
and  slip  out  of  their  company  in  time,  to  make 
friends  with  bird  and  beast,  and  watch  in- 
sects and  grubs — to  relax  and  to  be;  that's  my 
idea  of  tramping.  The  blessed  nights  full  of  dew 
or  rain  and  breeze,  the  full  length  of  a  ferny  bed 
that  Mother  Earth  provides — don't  they  attract, 
don't  they  pull  one  away  from  the  town!  And 
then  the  day,  with  celestial,  unadvertised,  unpaid' 
for  sunshine  or  shade,  on  the  rocks,  on  the  tufty 
hills,  beside  tiny  springs  or  stream  on  the  stairs 
of  the  mountains ! 


12         TRAMPING   WITH    A    POET 

I  HAD  an  idea  I  was  finding  my  poet  at  Spring- 
field— well,  I  know  I  shall  not  find  him  now  till 
we  get  to  the  wilderness.  He  is  yet  incarcerated 
in  the  home  town.  He  reflects  in  his  soul  the  grey 
walls  and  squat  architecture  of  the  city;  his  nerves 
are  still  tied  to  the  leading  strings  of  audiences 
and  friends ;  his  soul,  like  a  rare  singing  bird  lately 
caught  by  the  curious,  flings  itself  against  the  bars 
and  pines  for  the  wilderness.  All  is  going  to 
go  well  with  him  and  us,  I  surmise,  and  his 
eyes  will  have  mountains  and  stars  in  them,  and 
his  nerves  get  free  of  strings  and  sink  into  their 
natural  beds  for  a  rest,  and  his  soul,  that  rarely 
plumaged,  winged  wanderer  'twixt  heaven  and 
earth — well,  some  one  has  come  to  open  the  cage 
door  and  let  him  fly  away,  to  heart's  desire. 

The  world  will  have  to  send  a  fowler  after 
him  with  a  net,  if  it  wants  to  get  him  back.  And 
to  find  him — it  will  be  "a  long  ways." 


«4r 


FINDING  THE   POET  13 


The  poet  was  in  Fifth  Street 

Mewed  up  as  in  a  prison. 

He  was  moping  in  his  bedchamber 

All  the  day  long 

Far  from  the  mountains  and  the  flowers, 

But  see,  a  visitor  has  arrived 

From  strange  parts. 


III.    TAKING  THE   ROAD 


We  packed  our  knapsacks  at  Springfield,  and 
stowed  away  blankets  and  socks,  a  coffee-pot, 
and  a  frying-pan.  We  bought  at  a  ten-cent 
store  knife  and  fork  and  spoon,  skillet,  towels 
which  we  sewed  into  sacks,  mugs,  and  what 
was  labelled  "The  Mystic  Mit — the  greatest 
discovery  since  soap  for  cleaning  pots  and  pans." 
Lindsay  had  hobnails  put  in  his  old  boots  and 
bought  a  handsome  pair  of  corduroy  breeches, 
which,  together  with  his  old  black  hat,  made 
him  look  like  a  tramping  violinist.      Springfield 

14 


TAKING  THE   ROAD  15 

bade  us  farewell.  We  were  one  night  in  the 
train  to  Chicago  and  travelled  all  day  north  to 
St.  Paul.  We  were  then  two  nights  and  a  day 
crossing  the  great  land  ocean  of  Minnesota, 
North  Dakota,  and  eastern  Montana — what 
was  once  an  unending  stage-coach  trail  to  the 
West. 

"This  is  what  I  like,"  said  Lindsay — "the 
prairie  to  the  horizon,  no  fences,  no  stone  walls, 
as  in  New  England.  It  is  all  broad  and 
unlimited;  that  is  why  since  the  days  of 
Andrew  Jackson  all  the  great  politicians  have 
come  from  the  West — the  unfenced  West.  I'd 
like  to  put  all  the  Boston  and  New  York  people 
out  here  on  the  plains  and  let  the  plain  men  run 
the  East." 

To  me,  however,  it  looked  a  land  of  endless 
toil  as  I  saw  it  from  train  windows,  and  I 
thought  of  the  toiling  pioneers  and  the  Russians 
in  the  Dakotas,  the  Swedes  and  the  Germans 
content  to  live  and  toil  and  be  swallowed  up  at 
last  by  the  distances  and  the  primitive.  Euro- 
pean life-rivers  have  flowed  into  these  deserts 
and  made  them  what  they  are.  One  day  their 
children  perhaps  will  have  a  Western  conscious- 
ness, an  American  consciousness. 


1 6        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

We  stepped  off  the  train  at  Glacier  Park.  Station. 
Some  dozen  women  in  khaki  riding  breeches 
were  waiting  on  the  platform,  and  six  or  seven 
people  got  out  from  the  tourist  and  Pullman 
cars  to  cross  to  the  great  log-built  hotel  opposite. 
Then  the  train  started  again  and  toiled  onwards 
to  the  heights  of  the  divide,  whence,  as  Kipling 
put  it: 

They  ride  the  iron  stallions  down  to  drink; 
To  the  canyons  and  the  waters  of  the  West. 

We  spent  a  night  at  the  hotel  and  were  much 
amused  by  the  idea  of  a  room  with  a  bath  in 
such  a  place,  and  by  the  notice  that  you  could 
have  your  linen  laundered  in  twenty-four  hours. 
There  was  dancing  in  the  evening  in  an  im- 
mense hall  lit  by  red  Chinese  lanterns  and 
adorned  by  bear-skins  and  Alaskan  ornaments — 
a  fair  company  of  people,  too,  though  mostly 
from  the  West. 

We,  however,  were  eager  for  the  road,  and 
set  out  next  morning  with  blankets  and  pro- 
visions and  steered  a  north-westerly  or  west  by 
north-westerly  course  by  our  compasses,  abjur- 
ing trails  and  guides.  Our  idea  was  to  obtain  a 
cross-section  view  of  the  Rockies  in  their  most 
primitive    state    unguided    by    convention.      We 


TAKING  THE  ROAD  17 

hoped  to  realise  something  of  what  America 
was  like  for  at  least  a  hundred  years  after  Colum- 
bus discovered  it.  We  were  headed  for  the  virgin 
land. 

How  quickly  did  we  leave  that  hotel  with  its 
"stopping  over"  crowd  behind!  In  an  hour  we 
were  in  the  deep  silence  of  the  mountains  en- 
compassed on  each  side  by  exuberant  pink  lark- 
spurs and  blanket  flowers  and  red  paint-brush. 
We  clambered  upward,  ever  upward,  through 
fresh,  young,  chattering  aspens  and  then  green 
tangled  pinewood — and  then  also  through  old 
dead  forests  lying  in  black  confusion,  uprooted, 
snapped,  stricken,  in  heaps  like  the  woods  of  the 
Somme  Valley.  Then  we  walked  through  new 
dead  forests,  burned  only  last  year,  and  then 
through  brown  scorched  forests  that  did  not  burn, 
but  died  merely  of  the  great  heat  which  their 
neighbours'  burning  had  caused. 

We  stepped  from  log  to  log  and  tree  to  tree, 
making  for  the  open  and  the  light,  with  the 
gaiety  of  troubadours,  and  Lindsay  seemed 
romantically  happy.  I  also  was  happy,  and 
thought  of  the  happy  days  before  the  war,  when 
I  tramped  in  this  fashion  back  and  forth  across 
the  Caucasus  Mountains  and  along  hundreds  of 


1 8        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

miles  of  Black  Sea  shore.  It  was  pure  joy  to 
light  the  first  fire  and  fry  our  bacon  and  make 
our  coffee  in  the  full  effulgence  of  the  sun. 

Glacier  National  Park,  which  we  passed 
through  first,  is  a  preserve.  It  is  God's  holy 
mountain  on  which  no  man  may  shoot.  By 
the  laws  you  are  not  allowed  even  to  frighten 
a  bird.  You  may  not  carry  firearms  into 
the  region.  We  were  therefore  not  very 
agreeably  surprised  to  hear  in  the  thickets  the 
whiz-ping  of  a  gun  which  some  Indians  were 
using.  Lindsay  nearly  got  a  shot  in  the  head 
as  he  got  up  from  luncheon.  The  fact  is, 
Glacier  adjoins  the  Blackfeet  Indian  reservation, 
and  the  Indians  are  all  hunters  by  instinct  and 
preference.  It  is  difficult  to  restrain  them. 
They  are  a  gay,  independent,  and  wild  lot. 
We  saw  a  number  of  these  men  with  an  array 
of  plumes  round  their  heads,  steel  padlocks  in 
their  ears  for  ear-rings,  cow-bells  on  their 
sleeves,  and  chequer-work  embroidery  on  their 
gay  vests  and  cloaks.  They  had  with  them 
their  squaws,  fat  and  handsome  women,  all 
swollen  out  and  weather-beaten  like  fishwives, 
with     high     cheek-bones     and     red-ochre     faces. 


TAKING  THE   ROAD  19 

They  danced  together  and  skirled  in  wild 
Asiatic  strains  while  four  intent  ruffians  in 
ordinary  attire  beat  upon  one  small  drum  with 
sticks.  I  seemed  to  recognise  in  them  some 
sort  of  acquaintance  to  my  old  friends,  the 
nomads  of  Central  Asia,  the  Kirghiz — the  same 
sort  of  faces  and  the  same  way  of  being  musical. 
I  have  had  a  similar  musical  entertainment 
during  weeks  and  months  tramping  in  Turkestan 
and  Seven  Rivers  Land.  Both  Kirghiz  and 
Indians  are  dying  out  and  both  are  red.  I 
was  struck  by  the  feminine  expression  of  the  faces 
of  the  Indians  and  the  absence  of  hair  on 
their  lips  and  chins — as  if  their  males  were  not 
male. 

However,  we  soon  left  the  Blackfeet  behind, 
and  came  out  of  their  forests,  and  in  late  after- 
noon stood  high  above  the  lovely  length  of 
water  which  we  identified  as  Medicine  Lake. 


20        TRAMPING  WITH  A   POET 


The  Indians  are  dancing  as  we  enter  their  paradise, 

Our  hearts  are  dancing  too. 

We  love  the  Indians  because  they  never  bent  their 

backs 
To  slavery, 
To  civilisation, 
To  office-desks. 

What  matter  if  they  are  dying  out. 
They  have  at  least  lived  once. 


•H- 


l^enT  TO  A  Mouse 

A11D  I  KTlOCKeO  AT  THt  DOCHV 
BUT  THe OLD  LADY  SAID 

i  HAve  seen  you  ceforve 


IV.    FIRST  NIGHTS  OUT 

We  spent  our  first  night  in  a  burned  forest  beside 
a  sunken  pink  and  grey  rock.  There  was  a 
green  carpet  of  unblossoming  flowers  as  green 
and  romantic  as  ideal  spring,  and  beside  it  in  con- 
trast the  stark  blackness  of  the  charred  trees  all 
up  and  down  the  hill.  Hidden  from  view  but 
twenty  yards  away  was  a  foaming  rivulet  with 
pools. 

We  bathed  and  we  cooked  and  we  talked 
and  we  slept.  A  great  mountain  like  God 
Almighty    in    the    midst    of    His    creation    was 

21 


22        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

visible  to  us  through  the  trees.  We  made  our 
beds  soft  by  pulling  the  dead  red  foliage  from 
scorched  trees  and  heaping  it  under  our  blankets 
beside  the  pink  rocks.  Lindsay  made  hot  a 
large  stone  in  the  embers  of  our  fire  to  keep 
him  warm.  So  we  lay  down  and  waited  for 
the  night.  I  looked  through  black  masts 
and  great  entanglements  to  the  hills.  Lindsay 
faced  a  scorched  section  of  the  forest  all  hang- 
ing in  brown  tresses.  We  listened  to  the  stream 
below,  its  music  becoming  every  moment  more 
insistent.  We  knew  that  it  would  lull  us  all 
night  long. 

The  mountain  cloud  then  began  to  come  down 
and  roll  over  the  tree-tops,  giving  them  ghostly 
semblance.  That  passed,  and  the  stars  and  the 
moon  appeared  and  stillness  ruled.  An  hour  be- 
fore dawn  we  were  awakened  by  the  sudden  patter 
of  a  shower  of  rain  and  it  was  followed  by  the 
birth  of  a  wind  which  came  roaring  along  a  ravine 
and  started  all  the  air  moving  everywhere  and  all 
the  dead  forest  creaked  and  whined.  It  was  our 
signal  to  arise. 

Lindsay  rose  like  a  young  lion  roaring,  rrrah! 
.  .  .  and  making  the  mountains  echo  with   his 


FIRST   NIGHTS  OUT  23 

roar.  "Let  us  go  up  higher,"  says  he.  I  read 
him  this.  "Put  it,  'Lindsay  arose  groaning  and 
grunting  like  a  pig  under  a  gate — and  let  people 
choose,'  "  said  the  poet. 

He  was  in  great  spirits.  "I  have  never  been 
so  free.  I  start  afresh.  All  is  behind  me.  We'll 
tramp  to  the  coast.  We'll  tramp  to  Alaska.  We'll 
do  all  the  national  parks,  the  same  way,"  were  his 
impulsive  speeches. 

As  we  climbed  aloft,  following  the  North- 
west by  our  wrist-compasses,  and  careless  of 
time  and  space,  he  sang  a  disreputable  song  be- 
longing no  doubt  to  that  disreputable  past  of  his 
when  he  hiked  and  begged  and  recited  his  poems 
to  farmers — 

Why  don't  you  go  to  work 

Like  other  men  do  ? 

How  can  we  work  when  there's  no  work  to  do? 

Hallelujah,  on  the  bum ! 

Hallelujah,  bum  again! 
Hallelujah!    Give  us  a  hand-out 
To  revive  us  again ! 

"You  do  look  a  real  honest-to-God  tramp 
this  morning,"  said  I  in  the  language  of  the 
country,  "with  your  corduroys  burst  out  at  the 
knees,  old  red  handkerchief  round  your  neck,  and 
devil-may-care  look  in  your  eyes." 


24        TRAMPING   WITH   A    POET 

We  reached  the  top  of  a  mountain  where 
there  was  a  perfect  "cyclorama,"  as  he  called 
it,  and  he  balanced  on  his  toes,  and  half  closed 
his  eyes  in  his  half  upturned  face,  and  turned 
round  and  about  like  a  teetotum.  Last  time  I  had 
seen  him  do  this  was  on  the  carpet  of  a  London 
drawing-room  in  Queen  Anne's  Gate  to  the 
strains  of  "Let  Samson  be  a-coming  in  to  your 
mind." 

This  mountain  was  our  first  ne  plus  ultra, 
for  having  got  to  the  top  of  it  there  was  only 
one  thing  to  do,  and  that  was  to  go  down 
again.  Lindsay  tested  the  echoes  from  it  with 
"Rah  for  Bryan/"  apparently  his  favourite 
war-cry,  and  then  as  if  in  response  a  slim  Indian 
youth  on  horseback  appeared  and  seemed  much 
amused  by  us.  He  was  very  red  and  swarthy, 
with  bright  teeth,  and  rode  his  horse  as  if  he 
and  it  made  one.  He  told  us  he  knew  all  the 
mountains  and  had  been  to  the  top  of  every 
one  except  Rising  Wolf,  which  had  never  been 
climbed  by  any  one.  "It  is  called  'Wolf  gets 
up'  in  our  language,"  he  explained,  and  pointed 
to  its  snarling  and  menacing  mass  upstarting 
through  clouds.  "A  storm  comes  from  the 
mountain,"  said  he  in  warning,  and  passed  on. 


FIRST  NIGHTS   OUT  25 

He  passed  and  we  remained,  and  we  saw  no  other 
human  being  the  whole  day. 

"Just  think  of  the  children  these  flowers  would 
amuse,"  said  Lindsay.  "Millions  of  flowers — and 
the  only  human  being  we  see  is  an  Indian.  I'd 
like  to  write  a  song  on  it." 

But  the  poetic  mood  passed.  Thunderclouds  rose 
in  spectral  peaks  behind  the  mountains.  Mount 
Helen  grew  dark  and  dreadful,  and  four  phan- 
tasmal Mount  Helens  appeared  behind  her,  the 
first  of  white  mist,  the  second  of  lead,  the  third 
of  streaming  cloud,  the  fourth  of  shadow.  Rising 
Wolf  entered  heaven;  a  howling,  gathering,  tu- 
multuous wind  roared  over  all  the  pines  of  the 
valleys  and  lightning  like  the  glint  of  an  eye 
traversed  the  ravine.  Clouds  swept  forward  to 
embrace  us  and  indeed  overtook  us  and  soaked 
us  while  we  sat  together  on  a  downward  slide  and 
sheltered  under  a  blanket. 

The  storm  passed,  but  we  got  drenched  to 
our  necks  as  we  walked  through  dense  under- 
growth downward  to  a  strikingly  prominent 
clump  of  gigantic  pines  which  from  aloft  we  had 
chosen  as  harbourage  for  the  night.  These  lifted 
their    fine    forms    from    immemorial    heaps    of 


26        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

old  pine  mould,  soft  and  brown  and  porous. 
There  was  a  stream  near  them  and  we  lit  a  great 
fire  by  the  water's  edge  and  hung  out  a  line  to 
dry  blankets,  coats,  pants,  socks,  and  all  we 
possessed. 

The  heat  flew  up  in  armfuls  of  smoke,  in 
showers  of  sparks,  up  to  our  sagging  shirts  and 
heavy  blankets.  Sparks  in  hundreds  lighted 
on  them,  and  went  out  or  burned  small  holes. 
We  walked  about  like  savages  the  while, 
wresting  dead  wood  to  build  ever  higher  the  fire. 
I  pulled  down  a  branch  with  a  tree-wasp's  nest 
upon  it,  and  brought  a  cloud  of  wasps  after  our 
bodies,  and  I  paid  the  penalty  in  a  sting.  Thus, 
however,  we  dried  everything,  and  we  were  able 
at  last  to  make  a  dry  bed  in  a  wet  place. 
But  rain  came  on  again  at  night,  and  in  the  in- 
tense darkness  under  the  giant  pines  we  lay  and 
heard  it,  and  slept,  and  then  waked  to  hear  it 
again. 


FIRST  NIGHTS  OUT  27 


//  it  rains  in  the  town  and  if  you  get  caught  in  the 

rain 
And  soaked  to  the  bone — ah  what  a  calamity! 
You  must  have  a  hot  bath,  and  take  some  hot 

toddy; 
You  must  swallow  an   aspirin  and  sleep   under 

blankets, 
Whilst  your  clothes  on  two  chairs  by  the  fire  will  be 

drying; 
You  must  put  on  dry  clothes  in  the  morning. 
It's  different  in  the  mountains , 
You  can  sleep  wet  and  wake  wet, 
And  dry  when  the  weather  gets  drier, 
That 's  more  fun:  try  it. 





V.    GOING  UP  TO  THE   SNOW 


It  cleared  up  before  dawn,  but  it  rained  for 
three  hours  after  dawn.  Vachel  got  up  in  the 
night  and  relit  the  fire  and  made  himself  a  hot 
rock.  Coming  back  into  our  dark  and  gloomy 
thicket,  he  mistook  my  form  for  a  bear,  and  his 
heart  jumped.  We  lived  in  expectation  of 
meeting  bears.  "There'll  just  be  one  heading 
in  the  Illinois  Register,"  says  Vachel — "Ate 
by    Bears."      We    placed    our    bacon    twenty 

28 


GOING   UP  TO  THE   SNOW        29 

yards  away  from  where  we  slept,  and  hoped 
tacitly  that  they  would  take  the  bacon  and  spare 
us. 

Our  knapsacks  weighed  double  next  morn- 
ing because  of  the  wet  in  our  things.  We  got 
wetter  still  as  we  ploughed  out  through  flower 
fields  of  a  drowned  paradise.  But  an  hour 
before  noon  the  sun  broke  free  and  started  a 
miraculous  drying  of  Nature  and  of  ourselves. 
We  seemed  to  cook  in  the  steam  of  our  own 
clothes.  On  the  hillside,  at  last,  we  decided  to 
rest  and  we  spread  out  everything  to  dry,  dis- 
pensing with  most  of  our  clothes,  and  we  lay 
in  the  sun  in  the  hot  damp  of  the  flowers  and  let 
Old  Sol  stream  into  us. 

Early  in  the  afternoon  most  of  our  clothes 
were  dry  and,  following  the  compass,  we 
climbed  up  and  up  to  a  great  height  through 
primeval  forest.  The  trees  were  so  close  that 
often  we  could  not  squeeze  between  them  with 
our  packs.  We  hustled  and  bustled  and  im- 
politely pushed  through  branches  and  umbrage 
and  crossed  tiny  glades  filled  with  ineffably 
lovely  basket  grass,  holding  aloft  their  cream 
crowns  of  blossom.  It  seemed  to  us  a  grert 
struggle,     and    Lindsay    and    I     held     different 


30        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

opinions  as  to  what  we  should  find  when  we  got 
to  the  end  of  the  wood,  and  both  of  us  were  wrong. 
He  thought  it  would  be  "the  divide."  I  thought 
it  might  be  another  ne  plus  ultra  and  a  sheer 
descent. 

But  instead  it  was  a  sort  of  end  of  the  world. 
Our  primeval  forest  came  sharply  to  an  end 
on  a  deep,  green,  wind-bitten  line  where  the 
branches  of  the  trees  were  gnarled  and  twisted 
and  beaten  downward.  Beyond  that  was  a 
boulder-strewn  upper  mountain  region  and  a 
wall  of  rock.  We  asked  no  questions  as  to 
the  morrow,  but  camped  beside  a  huge  stone. 
It  was  twelve  feet  high,  but  one  could  creep 
under  it  and  be  safe  from  the  rain.  And  a  few 
feet  away  was  our  first  snow-bank.  We  built 
a  big  fire  and  made  tea  of  melted  snow,  and 
Lindsay  made  ice-cream  of  sugar  and  condensed 
milk  and  snow  which  we  voted  very  good, 
and  we  made  eight  or  nine  hot  rocks  for  our 
bed. 

Because  of  the  mountain  wall  above  us  sunset 
took  place  at  about  four  in  the  afternoon  here. 
But  a  beautiful  evening  endured  long  in  the 
east  below  us.     We   were   so   exalted   that   we 


GOING  UP  TO  THE  SNOW  31 

looked  a  hundred  miles  over  the  plains  and 
saw,  as  it  were,  the  whole  world  picked  out  in 
shadow  and  sunshine  below.  Sunset  slowly 
advanced  over  it  all,  and  with  reflected  rays 
from  an  unseen  west  the  day  passed  serenely 
away. 

Lindsay,  being  the  colder  man,  slept  under 
the  great  boulder,  and  I  smoothed  out  a  recess 
at  the  side.  I  lay  beside  scores  of  daintily 
hooded  yellow  columbines  and  looked  out  to 
the  occasional  licked-sweet  redness  of  an  Indian 
paint  brush.  A  chipmunk  rudely  squeaked 
at  us,  and  as  a  last  visitor  a  humming  bird 
boomed  over  our  heads  like  a  night-awakened 
beetle. 

We  slept  serenely.  At  two  I  awoke  to  see  a 
fleeting  half  moon,  all  silver,  tripping  home- 
ward over  the  high  wall  of  the  mountain  with 
attendant  stars  behind.  But  away  in  the  east 
there  was  a  faint  rose  light  over  a  bank  of 
darkness.  The  darkness  slowly  took  sharp 
contour,  and  the  light  that  comes  before  the 
light  of  day  picked  out  ten  or  twelve  lakes  and 
tarns  which  we  had  not  noticed  until  then. 
The  darkness  below  the  rose  quivered  with 
lightning;     the     zenith     clearness     grew     clearer 


32        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

and  clearer,  and  then,  with  uplifting  hands  of 
glory  and  light,  came  seraphical  sunrise. 

Our  bonfire,  which  had  burned  red  all  night, 
now  burned  a  pallid  yellow  in  the  new  light, 
and  we  brought  out  our  blankets  into  the  open 
and  lay  down  and  slept  again  in  the  increasing 
light  and  warmth  of  the  new  day.  Then 
breakfast  at  seven  and  God's  in  his  heaven.  And 
we  washed  in  the  snow,  and  scores  of  curlews 
screamed  from  rock  to  rock  above  us  on  the  road 
that  we  should  take. 

"How  new  it  all  is!"  said  the  poet.  "It  is  as 
if  no  one  ever  slept  here  before  and  wakened  to 
see  what  we  see  or  to  do  the  things  we  do." 

Wrapped  in  our  thoughts  we  put  our  packs  on 
our  shoulders  and  meditatively  turned  our  steps 
to  the  downward-dropping  corner  of  the  moun- 
tain-wall which  obscured  the  adventures  of  the 
new  day. 


«<r 


GOING   UP  TO   THE   SNOW        33 


We  cut  off  the  top  of  the  snow  with  a  sharp  piece 

of  slate, 
And  took  the  purer  under-snow  to  make  our  coffee, 
To  make  ice-cream : 
Fastidious  creatures/ 
And  then  we  stood  in  the  snow-hole 
And  washed  with  warm  water, 
And  rubbed  ourselves  all  over  with  handfuls  of 

sloppy  snow — 
Disgusting  old  tramps! 
The  discreet  birds  watched  us, 
The  chipmunks  squeaked  at  us, 
You  didn't  see  us. 


V  A  p-  ° 


W    A    v 


VI.    DIFFERENT  WAYS  OF 
GOING  DOWNWARD 


For  several  days  now  we  did  not  meet  a 
human  being  or  see  evidence  of  the  existence 
of  one;  nor,  though  continually  imagining  that 
we  had  found  a  bit  of  a  trail,  did  we  find  either 
a  footstep  or  a  hoof-mark.  "I've  never  been 
before  in  a  place  where  you  did  not  see  tin 
cans,"  said  Lindsay.  "Why,  some  of  the 
popular  canyons  of  the  West  are  literally  filled 
with  cans.  It  is  not  only  tourist  parties  that 
leave  them,  but  the  cowboys  live  on  canned 
goods    and    fill    the    valley    with    their    cans." 

34 


WAYS   OF   GOING   DOWNWARD    35 

Another  relief  is  the  absence  of  advertise- 
ments, of  all  the  signs  of  modern  civilisation. 
You  are  given  without  reserve  to  America  as 
she  was. 

"I  don't  believe  in  class  war,"  says  Lindsay,  as 
we  turn  the  corner  of  the  mountain  wall.  "I  be- 
lieve in  the  war  of  the  mountain  and  the  desert 
with  the  town.  Only  the  deserts  and  mountains 
of  America  can  break  the  business-hardened  skulls 
of  the  East." 

He  wants  me  to  seek  with  him  the  source 
of  the  American  spirit  in  the  mountains  of  the 
West.  However,  reality  confronts  us  and  not 
a  dream.  We  see  beyond  the  wall  of  the 
mountain,  terrace  after  terrace  and  cascade 
upon  cascade,  gleaming  upward  on  a  sort  of 
endless  stairway.  To  the  first  waterfall  we 
count  eight  bays  of  loose  stone  and  shale. 
We  step  from  rock  to  rock,  and  as  my  legs 
are  longer  this  hinders  Lindsay  more  than  it 
does  me.  He  is  all  for  diagonalising  down- 
ward, or  even  going  straight  down,  and  finding 
an  imaginary  easier  course  skirting  the  edge 
of  the  forest.  We,  however,  try  to  keep  our 
level,  but  whether  we  wish  it  or  no  we  slide  down- 
ward at  each  uncertain  step. 


36        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

At  last  we  come  to  a  bay  of  tiny,  trickling 
silt,  so  steep  and  smooth  that  a  glass  marble 
might  roll  from  the  top  of  the  mountain  to 
the  bottom.  Decent  progress  along  this  is 
impossible,  so  we  decide  to  toboggan  to  the 
bottom,  and  seat  ourselves  on  broad,  flat  stones, 
and  guiding  ourselves  with  our  hands  go  off 
at  a  rare  pace  for  that  imaginary  better  way 
at  the  skirting  of  the  mid-mountain  forest. 
The  device  reminds  Lindsay  of  an  Indian 
Government  agent  who  had  the  task  of  supply- 
ing the  Indians  with  all  they  needed  on  their 
reservation. 

There  came,  consigned  to  him,  some  very 
large  skillets  or  frying-pans,  which  the  Indians 
repeatedly  refused  to  take  away,  having  no 
use  for  them.  At  last  one  day  the  chief  came 
in  and  gladly  took  away  the  lot.  The  agent, 
curious  to  know  what  they  were  going  to  do  with 
them,  went  out  to  see.  He  found  half  the  tribe 
on  the  hillside  and  a  very  gay  game  in  progress — 
Indians  sitting  in  the  frying-pans  and  tobogganing 
on  the  loose  shale. 

We  slid  to  the  bottom  like  the  Indians,  but  we 
found  no  better  way  down  there.  The  skirting 
of  the  mid-mountain  forest  ran  unevenly,  now  up 


WAYS   OF   GOING    DOWNWARD     37 

three  hundred  feet,  now  down  again,  and  it  was 
too  arduous   a   way   for  us.      "Let  us   go   down 
through  the  forest  and  seek  a  trail,"  said  my  com- 
panion.     Once    more   we    entered    the    primeval 
crowd  of  vegetation,  and  like  police  hurrying  to 
some  scene  of  accident,  pushed  our  way  through. 
In  half  an  hour  we  made  good  progress  down- 
ward and  came  to  a  sheer  cliff  over  the  rivulet 
of    the    valley.      The    cliff    was    feathered    with 
pines,  and  we  let  ourselves  down  with  our  hands 
from    the   tops    of   trees,    from   branches,    from 
stem   to   stem   and   trunk   to   trunk,    to   the   ver- 
dant pit   of  the  stream.     We   clambered   down- 
ward like  two  curious  Mowglis,  but  with  large 
humps   on   our  backs,   and  the   humps   were   our 
packs.       And   how   these   packs   of   ours    pulled 
us  about!     We  seldom  touched  earth  with   our 
feet    and    therefore    constantly    slewed    around 
and  dangled  with  our  packs  entangled  in  thick 
growth. 

There  was  little  to  console  the  poet  when  the 
water  was  reached,  unless  it  was  the  mess  of  tea 
we  made  on  a  fire  on  a  dank,  red  rock  standing 
out  of  the  stream.  But  he  was  all  for  fording 
the  water  and  for  trying  to  find  a  better  way  on 
the  other  side.     This  we  did,  and  we  climbed  up 


38        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

again  and  then  we  climbed  down.  And  we  found 
no  better  way.  For  no  one  had  been  there  before 
us  to  make  it  for  us. 

But  we  found  beautiful  quarters  at  last  among 
the  snows  and  the  waterfalls  below  the  pass,  and 
we  slept  under  innumerable  stars,  lulled  by  the 
choruses  of  many  waters.  We  made  breakfast 
at  dawn  and  talked  till  it  was  warm.  Vachel  told 
me  of  his  past — how  he  had  struggled  always 
against  the  downward  way.  People  had  said  to 
him,  "You  must  make  money.  You  must  enter 
a  profession."  When  as  an  art  student  he  had 
gained  some  power  with  the  pencil,  they  had 
said,  "You  must  enter  commercial  art" ;  when  as 
poet  he  had  been  recognised,  they  had  said, 
"You  must  let  us  organise  and  commercialise 
your  gift,  turn  it  into  money  for  you." 
"They  wanted  to  Barnumise  me,"  said  my  com- 
panion, "and  take  me  all  over  America  as  a 
reciting  freak.  When  I  refused,  they  said,  'You'll 
end  in  the  poor-house,'  and  I  replied,  'I 
don't  care:  show  me  the  poor-house — let  me 
go  to  it.'  "  He  had  taken  to  the  road  to 
regain  his  self-respect.  He  had  gone  with- 
out any  money,  and  in  the  hospitality  and 
kindness    of    the    farmers   he    had    won    a    per- 


WAYS  OF  GOING  DOWNWARD      39 

sonal  faith  in  the  common  man  and  a  re- 
liance which  was  not  merely  on  success.  When 
he  harvested  in  Kansas  for  two  dollars  fifty  a 
day,  that  daily  wage  was  like  millions  to  him. 
And  now  with  me,  when  all  the  world  was  tell- 
ing him  he  must  do  thus  and  so,  he  was  finding 
in  the  wilderness  of  the  Rockies  a  new  means  of 
escape. 

"To-morrow,"  said  he,  "we  will  climb  right 
away  to  the  top  and  find  the  pass  into  new 
country." 

ft* 


Who  said  it  was  easier  to  go  down, 

Facilis  decensus  and  the  rest? 

I'll  say  it  is  more  painful 

Than  to  go  up. 

You  think  it  was  great  fun  a-  sliding  down  the  shale 

On  large  flat  rocks. 

But  it  leaves  me  cold, 

As  the  saying  is, 

For  the  seat  of  my  pants  is  much  thinner. 


"THEY   OUTSTAYED    US   AND   WILL  OUTSTAY  U 


VII.    SILENCED  BY 
THE    MOUNTAINS 

My  companion's  secret  thought  is  that  he  is  a 
Virginian.  But  how,  since  he  was  born  in 
Illinois  and  his  parents  in  Kentucky?  "I  am 
a  follower  of  Poe  and  Jefferson,"  he  answers. 
Kentucky  was  largely  colonised  from  Virginia, 
and  the  poet  is  ready  to  claim  allegiance  to  the 
chivalric,  leisurely  and  flamboyant  genius  of  the 
South.  "If  only  as  a  protest  against  the  drab, 
square-toed,  dull,  unimaginative  America  which 
is  gaining  on  us  all,"  he  adds.  He  has  a 
passion  for  ideal  democracy,  and  his  great  hero 
of  the  hour  as  we  stride  over  the  rocks  is  John 
Randolph,  of  Roanoke,  who  could  enter  Congress 

40 


SILENCED  BY  THE  MOUNTAINS     41 

with  four  hounds  and  a  dog-whip  and  make 
speeches  to  which  all  must  listen.  "America," 
Lindsay  insists,  "simply  needs  the  flamboyant  to 
save  her  soul."  I  suppose,  because  of  that  faith, 
he  also,  Vachel  Lindsay,  the  poet,  is  a  flamboyant 
genius. 

The  higher  we  rose  in  the  mountains  the 
more  serious  became  our  conversation.  We 
were  silent  only  when  we  lost  our  breath. 
Upon  occasion,  in  this  grand  and  lonely  scene, 
the  poet  would  lift  his  voice  so  high  that  it 
could  have  been  heard  on  the  mountain  on  the 
other  side  of  the  valley.  His  enthusiasm 
naturally  lifted  his  resonant  voice.  His  political 
hero  is  John  Randolph  or  Andrew  Jackson,  his 
literary  hero  is  Ruskin,  his  artist  in  marble  is 
Saint-Gaudens,  his  pet  hobby  is  Egyptian 
hieroglyphics,  his  passion  is  the  road,  and  his 
ideal  is  St.  Francis.  Tell  it  to  the  mountains 
and  the  streams;  tell  it  out!  They  hear  and  so 
do  I. 

Where  we  stand  is  where  never  man  has  stood 
before,  or  foot  of  man  has  trod,  and  the  fresh 
and  virginal  flowers  on  every  hand  look  up  at 
us  with  mute  surprise.     We  carry  our  argument 


42        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

higher  and  higher.  We  sit  and  boil  our  pot 
beside  a  bank  of  purple  heather,  exalted  upon 
the  bare  scarp  of  a  sun-drowned  mountain,  and 
crackling  of  roots  in  the  fire  blends  with  strident 
Middle-West  American.  We  pull  up  to  the 
black  door  of  a  great  rock,  and  the  splashing 
of  a  cascade  splashes  through  his  vibrant 
tones. 

At  last,  however.,  the  mountains  silenced  us. 
They  outstayed  us,  and  will  outstay  us.  They 
ate  up  our  provisions,  and  swallowed  our  breath, 
and  beguiled  us  deceptively  to  climb  higher. 
"Upward  and  onward!"  was  invisibly  written 
on  every  crag.  And  we  always  expected  to 
get  to  the  top  in  an  hour.  We  finished  the 
coffee,  we  finished  the  milk,  we  finished  the 
bread,  we  finished  the  sugar.  We  got  down  to 
a  rasher  of  bacon  a  day  and  tea  without  sugar 
and  milk.  Then  even  the  much-loathed  bacon 
got  finished,  and  the  problem  was  to  find  a  "camp" 
and  get  more  supplies.  So  we  set  ourselves  seri- 
ously to  the  task  of  finding  a  pass  over  the 
range. 

The  poet  became  much  exhausted,  and  the 
high  altitude  evidently  affected  him  more  than  it 
did  me.     We  walked  quarter-hours   and   rested 


SILENCED  BY  THE  MOUNTAINS     43 

quarter-hours,  and  every  time  we  rested  we  fell 
fast  asleep.  I  led  up  the  steep  inclines,  and  we 
stopped  every  twenty  paces  and  listened  to  our 
breath,  I  to  his  breath,  he  to  mine — ao,  ao,  ao — 
almost  a  sob,  and  waited  for  the  ahoo  sound,  which 
meant  that  the  lungs  had  filled  again.  After  some 
arduous  hours  in  this  wise,  we  came  on  our  first 
destitute  afternoon,  to  our  first  topmost  ridge. 
A  cold  hurricane  seemed  to  try  to  stop  our  final 
conquest  of  it,  and  it  went  through  our  bodies  like 
swords.  But  when  we  exultantly  bore  through  it 
we  came  to  a  sheer  precipice  going  down  to  a 
narrow  corridor  which  led  always  to  the  north- 
ward. 

Vachel  punctuates  most  of  his  remarks  with  a 
wild  native  yell — "Whoopee  Whuh!"  but  he 
was  down  to  a  whisper  now,  and  could  no  longer 
move  the  mountains  with  a  "Hurrah  for  Bryan." 
Silently  and  rather  mournfully  we  diagonalised 
downward  to  a  far  blue  lake  which  was  the 
ultimate  end  of  the  valley,  and  the  source  of  the 
stream  we  had  followed  for  days.  Devastating 
winds  blew  across  us,  and  we  watched  how  they 
descended  upon  the  surface  of  that  lake  and 
tore  it  off   in  sprays  and  circles  of  water   and 


44        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

steam.  We  found  what  seemed  to  be  a  horse- 
trail  over  the  shingle,  but  it  led  to  an  extensive 
field  of  snow,  and  we  recognised  only  the  foot- 
steps of  a  bear.  The  lake  was  not  blue,  but  green 
when  we  got  near  to  it,  and  was  banked  on  three 
sides  by  snow. 

Said  Vachel:  "Here,  Stephen,  is  the  place  to 
catch  a  fish." 

"I  said:  "No,  Vachel,  this  is  just  a  snow-melt; 
there  never  were  any  fish  here." 

"Nevertheless  try!"  said  the  poet. 

Now  we  had  purchased  fishing  tackle,  though 
we  had  no  rods.  And  Vachel  had  a  large  red 
wooden  grasshopper,  and  I  had  a  large  green 
one. 

Vachel  said:  "You  must  throw  your  grass- 
hopper in,  and  I'll  go  light  a  fire  so  as  to  be  ready 
to  cook  the  fish." 

So  I  fastened  my  fat  green  wooden  gentle- 
man to  the  gut,  and  the  gut  to  the  line,  and 
attaching  a  stone,  flung  him  in  the  air.  Behold, 
he  flew  like  a  grasshopper  and  disported 
with  the  winds.  But  when  he  settled  at 
last  on  the  surface  of  that  green  and  snowy 
lake,  he  always  made  a  most  rapid  progress 
toward   the   shore.      I    sailed   him    like    a    boat. 


SILENCED  BY  THE  MOUNTAINS     45 

No  fish  came,  and  even  our  faith  remained 
unrewarded. 

Was  not  this  adventure  prophetically  put  in 
verses  in  Alice,  where  some  one  sent  a  message 
to  the  fish,  telling  them,  this  is  what  I  wish.  And 
the  little  fishes'  answer  was — "We  cannot  do  it, 
sir,  because," — the  little  fishes,  as  was  disclosed 
later,  were  in  bed. 

We  sat  down  together  in  a  place  like  the  heath 
in  Macbeth,  and  the  weird  sisters  were  ready  to 
appear,  had  we  been  evil.  The  sun  had  set,  winds 
were  blowing  from  four  directions  at  the  same 
time,  and  it  was  bitterly  cold.  A  tiny  fire  of  roots 
peeped  at  us  and  smoked  and  chattered,  and  we 
tried  hard  to  get  warm  at  it.  We  looked  at  the 
mountain  walls,  we  looked  at  our  maps  and  com- 
passes. We  thought  of  the  night  and  of  our 
empty  wallets  and  insides.  "Just  think  of  Broad- 
way at  this  minute,"  said  Vachel.  "Still  swelter- 
ing in  heat,  not  yet  lighted  up  for  evening  pleas- 
ure." We  felt  far  from  civilisation,  and  sighed 
at  last  for  what  we  despised.  "Or  think  of  Pic- 
cadilly and  Shaftesbury  Avenue,"  said  I,  "all 
a-swarm  with  the  light-hearted  summer  crowd  of 
London." 

"Well,  we  can't  sleep  here,"  said  I  at  length. 


46        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

"Let  us  make  one  last  attempt  to  get  over  to  the 
other  side." 

Vachel  seemed  surprised,  but  agreed  with  alac- 
rity: "I'm  for  it,"  said  he. 


<<•<■ 


The  greedy  old  mountains  have  been  to  our  knap- 
sacks 

And  eaten  up  most  of  our  food. 

They've  swallowed  our  breath  and  silenced  our 
speech. 

But  they  haven't  broken  our  hearts. 

It  takes  more  than  a  mountain  to  do  that! 


mPMSONtD  IN  THE 
V1LV/LESS       WINDS 


VIII.    NIGHT  AND   NOTHING 
ON  THE  MOUNTAINS 


My  companion  has  a  curious  old-man-of-the- 
woods  appearance.  It  is  not  his  loose  red 
handkerchief  round  his  neck  so  much  as  his 
hanging,  dead-branch-like  arms.  His  face  sleeps 
even  when  he  is  awake.  He  walks  when  he  is 
tired  in  a  patient,  dog-like  way,  treading  in  my 
very  steps.     No  ribald  songs,  now,  of  tramping 

47 


48        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

days — but  as  if  hushed  by  the  hills  he  croons  ever 
to  himself — 

O  Beulah  land,  sweet  Beulah  land, 
Lo,  on  thy  topmost  mount  I  stand, 

and  in  a  sort  of  hymnal  marching  step,  like 
way-worn  pilgrims,  we  take  the  trackless  way 
upward  once  again.  And  it  is  late  twilight. 
Sombre  hope  and  patience  dwell  in  our  hearts  as 
we  trudge,  trudge  upward. 

By  slew  stages  we  reach  a  new  possible 
pass,  and  every  time  we  stop  and  turn  round 
and  sit  down  to  rest  we  face  the  lake.  On 
three  sides  the  descent  to  the  water  is  pre- 
cipitous, and  an  overhanging  snow-crust  goes 
round.  In  the  late  light  the  surface  of  the  lake 
is  a  still,  viscous  green  and  the  mountain  above 
it  a  calm  blood-red.  The  snow  patches  on  the 
mountain  are  of  fantastic  shape  and  give  an 
idea  of  futurist  designs.  We  stare  at  the  patches 
and  see  in  one  of  them  a  ferocious  white  tiger, 
stalking  forward  with  a  demented  white  cat  on 
its  back.  In  another  we  see  an  Egyptian 
figure,  slender,  with  veiled  features  of  awful 
and  eternal  significance.  These  grow  in  the 
dusk.       The  winds    chase    over    us,    and    when 


NIGHT   ON   THE    MOUNTAINS     49 

they  pass  there  are  moments  of  windlessness,  and 
we  watch  hurrying  grey  rags  of  clouds  running 
over  the  brow  of  the  ridge  above  us  and  losing 
themselves  in  thin  air. 

It  is  a  romantic  climb.  We  support  each 
other  up  the  steep,  sitting  down  every  twenty 
paces  in  breathlessness.  Vachel  sits  with  his 
head  on  my  shoulder  and  I  with  my  head  on 
his.  In  a  minute  or  so  we  recover  and  sit  up 
straight,  in  the  half  darkness,  and  pick  up  flat 
stones  and  try  to  make  them  skid  over  the 
snow  patches.  For  a  moment  I  was  taken 
back  to  the  romantic  vein  of  "Parsifal"  as  I 
saw  it  in  Vienna,  last  May,  and  we  were 
Wagnerian  pilgrims,  toiling  upwards  in  the 
ecstacy  of  mystical  opera.  Somewhere  below 
us,  in  the  lake,  all  the  violins  should  sob  and 
croon  together  and  aspire,  yes,  aspire  and  throb, 
and  the  drums  should  start  the  gods  to  look  at 
us.  But  we  treated  the  matter  in  light  vein.  "The 
Bacon-eaters,"  said  Vachel  sotto  voce.  "Seventh 
reel." 

A  MIGHTY  final  effort  brought  us  to  the  top. 
I  shall  not  soon  forget  the  dramatic  sensation  of 
seeing  the  new  sky  which  suddenly  began  to  lift 


5o        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

itself  into  our  view  from  out  the  other  side  of  the 
mountain,  a  sky  with  more  light,  for  it  lay  in  the 
West.  It  was  as  if  the  prison-wall  of  the  moun- 
tain had  been  thrown  down  and  that  which  pris- 
oners dream  about  and  rave  about  had  been 
given  us. 

And  there  was  a  way  down.  It  was  night  and 
nothing,  but  we  found  a  narrow  gully  on  the  other 
side,  five  or  six  feet  broad,  two  or  three  thousand 
feet  down,  and  an  appalling  steepness.  This  gully 
was  all  loose  stones  and  boulders  which  the  slight- 
est touch  sent  clattering  or  thundering  to  the 
bottom.  We  were  nerved  to  the  descent  by  what 
we  had  gone  through  and  by  our  joy  at  finding  a 
way  out. 

I  took  the  lead,  clutched  the  rock  wall  for  sup- 
port, and  began  to  slip  downward,  tentatively  and 
cautiously.  But  directly  I  started,  a  wonderful 
thing  occurred.  I  found  the  whole  body  of  loose 
stones  under  my  feet  moved  with  me,  and  I  began 
a  progress  as  on  a  moving  staircase,  down,  down, 
down,  as  in  Jules  Verne's  Journey  to  the  Centre 
of  the  Earth — easily,  steadily.  Pleasure  in  this 
was,  however,  rudely  disturbed.  Lindsay  had 
started  downward  behind  me  and  was  naturally 
starting  a  movement  of  rocks  on  his  own,   and 


NIGHT  ON  THE  MOUNTAINS      51 

suddenly  a  leg-breaking  boulder  flew  past  on  my 
track  with  dumfounding  acceleration.  I  climbed, 
therefore,  away  from  the  moving  staircase  into  a 
cleft  of  the  rock  and  waited  for  the  poet  to  draw 
level. 

It  was  dark  night  now,  and  as  the  rocks  from 
Lindsay's  feet  rushed  past  they  struck  bright 
sparks  in  the  gloom.  How  they  crashed!  How 
they  thundered  and  lurched  and  thumped,  and 
thumped  again,  and  thudded  into  the  abyss  below, 
and  how  the  little  stones  rattled  after  them !  We 
agreed  to  go  downward  in  short  spells,  one  at  a 
time,  and  then  go  into  shelter  and  wait  till  we 
drew  level  again.  And  as  we  sat  side  by  side  in 
the  gloom  we  looked  to  the  great  mountains  on 
the  other  side  of  the  new  valley  and  discerned  a 
colossal  figure  nine  in  snow,  staring  at  us  out  of 
the  darkness.  It  was  eerie.  It  needed  a  deal  of 
nerve  to  go  on. 

And  we  did  not  go  much  further.  At  one 
point  I  thought  I  saw  two  human  beings,  or 
they  might  have  been  bears,  struggling  slowly 
upward  toward  us.  I  shouted  to  them  and 
they  stopped.  But  they  made  no  reply  and 
just   glowered   menacingly   upward.      That    was 


52        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

the  end  for  me.  I  would  go  no  ^urther.  I  gave 
the  halloo  to  Lindsay  and  got  into  shelter.  He 
came  down  the  way  I  had  come,  laboriously,  cau- 
tiously, like  some  weather-beaten  old  soldier,  a 
skulker  from  beyond  human  ken.  And  he  also 
desired  to  do  no  more  that  night.  So  we  lay  in 
a  lair  of  a  beast  on  the  brink  of  a  sheer  cliff,  far, 
as  it  happened,  above  mist  and  cloud  and  a  rain 
that  was  falling  below,  and  slumbered  the  night 
away. 

«■<■ 

The  Guardsman  and  the  Western  Bard1 

Went  hiking  hand  in  hand. 
They  felt  uplifted  much  to  see 
The  prospects  wide  and  grand. 
"A  thousand  leagues,"  said  one,  "Oh  Steve, 
From  any  boardwalk  band." 

"How  fine  the  air,  immense  the  view! 

The  trees  are  large  and  green. 
See!    Here  are  glades  and  crystal  rills, 

And  every  scent  and  petal  fills 

1  Contributed  by  "Rusticus"  to  the  New  York  Evening  Post 
at  this  point  in  our  adventures. 


NIGHT    ON    THE    MOUNTAINS     53 

Our  souls  with  pure  ecstatic  thrills. 

Afflatus  holds  the  scene/" 
The  Guardsman  pointed  to  the  sun. 

"It's  supper  time,  I  mean." 


And  as  they  munched  the  cracker  thin 

And  quaffed  eau  naturel, 
The  gates  of  heaven  were  oped — and  all 

Its  liquid  contents  fell. 
They  felt  the  truth  that  bards  have  sung: 

Heaven  is  a  limpid  well. 

Then  night  came  on,  that  covers  all 

Of  high  and  mean  degree, 
The  king,  the  clown,  the  russet  gown, 

The  land,  the  clouds,  the  sea. 
"And  yet  I  scarcely  feel,"  said  one, 

"It  really  covers  me." 

Long  time  they  sought  sweet  slumber's  balm, 

Kind  antidote  to  care. 
"O  soft  embalmer,"  was  their  psalm 

That  filled  the  mountain  air. 
Embalmer!    Something  rough  in  pine 

Was  all  they  wanted  there. 

A  chilly  dawn  illumed  the  East, 

Most  wonderfully  wet. 
And  evermore  their  pangs  increased, 

Nor  heaven's  libations  ever  ceased.  .  . 
(No  further  messages  released 

They're  on  that  mountain  yet). 


WHen  He 
is  in  pai 


HG  CALLeTN 

FOMHeDOTae 


IX.    "WIFE,  GIVE  ME 
THE   PAIN-KILLER" 


"I  suffered  forty-seven  separate  chills,"  said 
the  poet.  "And  forty-seven  separate  cramps," 
said  I.  Did  we  sleep?  Six  hours  passed 
somehow  and  it  seemed  not  so  long  as  waiting 
that  time  for  a  train  or  for  a  theatre  to  open. 
Lindsay  lay  in  a  sort  of  hole.  I  lay  with  my 
head  half  over  the  abyss.  I  watched  the  stars 
swim  out  of  the  clouds  above.  I  saw  the 
blackness  of  the  bottomless  below  us  become 
grey  as  the  clouds  formed  there.  Lindsay  cried 
out   once:      "I'm    getting   up    to    light   a    fire." 

54 


"GIVE    ME    THE    PAIN-KILLER"     55 

"Impossible  !"  I  rejoined.  "There's  no  wood,  and 
no  place  to  light  it." 

"I  am  afraid  the  clouds  are  below  us;  we  may 
have  to  stay  up  here  all  day,"  I  whispered,  an 
hour  before  dawn.  But  it  was  all  the  same  to 
the  poet,  whose  thoughts  were  entirely  in  the 
present. 

Destiny,  however,  was  kind  to  us.  The 
clouds  at  last  lifted  and  drifted,  and  angels 
at  sunrise  lifted  white  curtains  and  smiled 
at  us. 

A  couple  of  old  woe-begone  weather-beaten 
tramps  lifted  themselves  up  cautiously  and 
peeped  at  the  wilderness.  Last  night's  nerve 
had  gone.  With  backs  bent,  and  sometimes 
on  hands  and  knees,  they  picked  their  way 
gingerly  down  to  the  far  snow  dump  beneath, 
to  the  first  wind-missed  bits  of  mountain  forest, 
to  the  first  tinkling  stream,  and  to  the  first 
chalice  anemones  and  pink  paint-brush  flowers. 
We  washed  and  we  dressed,  and  we  slept  and 
washed  again,  and  put  snow  inside  our  hats — 
for  the  morning  had  become  rapidly  hot — and 
we  descended.  The  streamlet  foamed  down  its 
rocky  bed,  and  we  waded  and  jumped  and  clung 
to  its  sides.     And  other  streams  flowed  into  it 


$6        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

and  made  it  deeper  and  the  current  stronger,  and 
it  splashed  us  above  the  waist.  We  waded  knee- 
high  through  pools  where  shadowy  fishes  darted, 
and  we  sat  to  rest  on  shiny  rocks  in  the  water 
and  talked  of  desirable  foods.  We  scanned  the 
map  of  the  Geological  Survey  and  stared  at  our 
compasses  and  considered  the  contours  of  the  hills, 
and  at  length  were  rewarded  by  the  sight  of  a 
real  human  horse  trail  with  indisputable  hoof- 
marks  upon  it. 

We  found  this  in  the  afternoon,  and  for  three 
hours  followed  doggedly,  without  meeting  a 
soul.  At  last,  to  our  great  joy,  we  came  upon 
a  trivial  enough  thing,  and  that  was  a  piece  of 
candy  wrapping.  "Those  who  eat  candy  do  not 
stray  far  from  the  place  where  candy  was  bought," 
said  I  sententiously. 

"Well  argued,  sir,"  said  Lindsay.  "I  fully 
agree." 

And,  indeed,  before  sunset  the  happy  augury 
was  fulfilled,  and  we  found  a  camp  much  used 
by  Montana  fishermen.  Curiously  enough, 
though  all  other  wild  things  are  preserved  in 
the  National  Park,  the  fishes  are  allowed  to  be 
caught.      In   our   opinion,   however,    after  some 


"GIVE  ME  THE  PAIN-KILLER"     57 

experience,  the  fishes  do  not  stand  in  need  of 
protection. 

At  the  camp  we  resumed  acquaintance  with  the 
human  race  in  the  person  of  the  keeper  and  his 
wife,  a  fire-ranger,  and  a  hired  maid  called  Elsie. 
They  filled  up  our  cans  and  gave  us  a  pail  of  boil- 
ing water  to  wash  our  clothes,  and  thread  for 
our  trousers  and  coats,  and  a  week's  rations  to 
take  us  to  "The  Sun."  They  were  disappointed 
that  we  would  not  buy  bacon. 

"Bacon,"  said  the  camp  keeper,  "is  my  long 
suit."  But  Vachel  vowed  he  had  gone  over  to 
the  Mosaic  point  of  view,  and  didn't  care  if  he 
never  tasted  bacon  again. 

Instead,  we  "filled  up"  with  corn-beef  hash 
and  took  into  our  packs  raisins  and  grape-nuts 
and  butter;  double  quantities  of  bread  and 
sugar  and  milk,  and  nine  packets  of  comforting 
lozenges.  And  we  saw  by  the  Spokane 
Advertiser  of  some  remote  date  that  the  King 
and  Queen  of  England  had  been  to  Ascot  races 
in  person,  and  no  one  knew  what  was  happening 
In  Ireland,  or  whether  De  Valera  was  a  Pro- 
testant or  a  Catholic,  and  the  fire-ranger  con- 
fessed he  did  not  know  the  ins  and  outs  of 
Sinn    Fein.      And   no,    there    had    not    been    a 


58        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

forest  fire  this  year  yet,  though  he  evidently  lived 
in  hope. 

So  the  poet  and  I  fortified  ourselves  materially 
and  spiritually,  and  set  off  again  for  the  North- 
west. We  started  on  our  new  rations  and  had 
one  of  the  most  jovial  of  meals  in  a  place  where 
evidently  people  had  once  camped  before.  We 
found  the  charred  circles  of  old  camp-fires  in 
the  grass. 

While  we  were  resting  under  the  trees,  and 
in  the  gleam  of  the  firelight,  Vachel  told  me  the 
story  of  how  once,  in  Kansas,  he  "ate  down"  his 
landlord.  He  had  hired  himself  out  with  a  gang 
of  others  to  harvest  the  wheat  on  the  land  of  a 
certain  German  farmer.  All  the  week-days  they 
"piled  the  golden  sheaves,"  and  it  was  a  red-hot 
July.  The  men  ate  as  much  as  they  were  able, 
slept  in  barns  on  the  hay  when  the  day  was  done, 
slept  like  the  dead,  rose  with  the  dawn,  and  cer- 
tainly did  bring  in  the  wheat.  For  this  they  got 
two  dollars  fifty  a  day  and  were  proud  of  their 
gains. 

On  Sunday,  however,  work  was  suspended, 
and  the  gang  just  lazed  and  dozed  and  ate. 
The  German  was  a  pious  Catholic,   and  said   a 


"GIVE   ME   THE    PAIN-KILLERS     59 

longish  grace  before  and  after  meals.  As  the 
gang  were  rather  sheepish  regarding  religion, 
they  generally  let  one  course  pass,  just  to  avoid 
the  grace,  and  came  slouching  in  as  the  meal  went 
on.  But  Vachel  started  in  with  the  first  grace, 
right  level  with  the  farmer  himself.  Whatever 
he  had  Vachel  had.  He  had  several  helpings  of 
everything  on  the  table,  and  as  each  of  the  ten 
harvest  hands  came  in  Vachel  started  afresh  with 
him,  and  as  he  had  hash  he  had  hash.  As  each 
man  thought  he  had  done,  he  slunk  out  so  as  to 
avoid  the  second  grace.  The  farmer  kept  piously 
waiting  for  all  the  men  to  get  finished,  and  help- 
ing himself  with  them,  too,  just  for  com. 
pany. 

At  last  all  seemed  to  have  finished  and  gone, 
and  the  farmer  was  about  to  pronounce  the 
final  blessing  when  he  had  an  afterthought  and 
took  another  piece  of  pie.  So  Vachel  also  took 
another  piece  of  pie.  Then  mechanically  the 
last  grace  was  said.  "I  went  over  to  the  barn 
and  lay  down  and  slept,"  says  Vachel.  "By 
supper-time  I  was  ready  for  another  meal,  and 
I  sat  down  again  with  the  farmer  before  the 
rest  of  the  gang  had  arrived  and  grace  was 
said.     The    farmer   was   about  to   help   himself 


60        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

when  suddenly  he  paused,  spoon  in  hand,  and 
sat  back  in  his  chair,  looking  ill. 

Then,  in  a  loud,  stentorian  voice  he  called  to 
the  kitchen:  "Wife,  give  me  the  pain-killer." 

He  had  a  violent  fit  of  indigestion.  Wife 
then  brought  a  large  bottle  labelled  PAIN- 
KILLER, an  astonishing  bottle,  about  a  foot 
long,  that  looked  as  if  it  might  be  horse  liniment, 
and  the  farmer  took  his  dose  with  a  large  iron 
spoon.  UA  terrible  stuff,"  says  Vachel,  "a 
stuff  that  just  eats  the  inside  out  of  you,  one  part 
turpentine,  three  alcohol,  and  the  rest  iron  rust. 
It  gives  you  such  a  heat  you  forget  about  your 
indigestion." 

So  the  farmer  had  his  pain-killer,  but  he  did 
not  eat  any  supper,  and  the  poet  and  the  rest 
of  the  gang  as  they  came  went  gaily  on  and  ate 
to  the  end.  "I  began  with  each  man  as  he 
came  in  and  ate  him  down,"  says  my  hungry 
companion  suggestively.  "And  the  farmer,  tasting 
■nothing,  had  to  wait  till  all  were  through  to  say 
the  final  grace.  We  finished  at  last  and  went  all 
of  us  to  the  barns  to  sleep  till  Monday  morning 
and  the  hour  when  we  returned  again  to  the 
gclden  line." 


"GIVE   ME  THE  PAIN-KILLER"     61 


The  kiss  by  hopeless  fancy  feigned 

On  lips  that  are  for  others, 

Does  not  compare  with  the  imaginary  meal 

You  eat  when  the  wallet  is  empty. 

The  kiss  too,  when  you  get  it, 

Oft  proves  a  disillusion; 

But  the  first  meal  after  an  involuntary  fast, 

Well! 

It  takes  a  real  poet  to  describe  that! 


^"""""'Mil,, 


+ 


X.    CLEAR    BLUE 

After  telling  me  how  he  "ate  down"  the  farmer, 
Vachel  rested  and  passed  into  a  halcyon  mood. 
We  had  a  heavenly  day  climbing  towards  a 
heaven  of  unclouded  blue.  Swinburne  flowed 
more  naturally  from  the  poet's  lips  than  con- 
versation: 


Before  the  beginning  of  years 

There  came  to  the  making  of  man 

Time  with  a  gift  of  tears, 
Grief  with  a  glass  that  ran. 
62 


CLEAR   BLUE  63 

His  thought  soared  with  our  steps. 

As  the  sea  gives  her  shells  to  the  shingle 
The  earth  gives  her  streams  to  the  sea, 

he  declaimed  to  the  streams.  I  promised  to 
arrange  a  Swinburne  recital  for  him  next  time 
he  came  to  England.  For  I  soon  found  that  he 
knew  as  much  Swinburne  by  heart  as  he  did  of 
his  own  poetry.  Ellery  Sedgwick  wrote  me  from 
Boston  that  to  tramp  with  a  poet  would  be  "Some 
punkins,"  and  one  may  say  it  was  when  the  poet 
all  day  long  was  a  living  fountain  of  verse.  I 
had  but  to  mention  a  poem  and  Lindsay  poured 
it  forth  to  the  skies.  We  bathed  in  a  waterfall 
in  the  heat  of  noon,  which  was  also  a  Swinburnian 
joy,  and  we  splashed  in  melting  snow  whilst  our 
shoulders  were  burned  by  the  sun  and  inured  our- 
selves to  sun  and  ice. 

The  sun  literally  blistered  the  skin,  and  we  re- 
clined in  it  on  scarlet  shelving  rocks  and  cooked 
our  luncheon.  All  the  while  Vachel  recited 
Swinburne's  "Ode  to  Athens,"  addressing  the 
walls  of  a  great  mountain  cirque  which  drooped 
in  snow  curtains  and  hanging  gardens  of  silver 
water. 

Up  there  came  to  us  after  lunch  a  yellowish- 


64        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

grey  animal  with  sprawling  hind  legs  and  stupid 
benevolent  snout  and  whistled  at  us — fee-fo, 
fee-fo, — a  whistling  marmot.  As  I  tried  to 
approach  him  he  snuggled  off  to  the  snow- 
field  whence  he  had  come,  disappeared  under 
the  crust,  and  presently  reappeared  from  a 
hole  in  the  midst  of  the  snow  and  began 
chasing  chipmunks  in  and  out  of  the  snow 
holes. 

We  resumed  our  journey  upward,  and  all  was 
well.  The  grass  was  emerald,  the  paint-brush 
was  bright  ruby.  Swallow-tailed  butterflies 
aeroplaned  to  our  feet.  The  valley  was  broad 
and  clear  without  mystery  or  horror.  The 
waterfalls  hung  like  the  gardens  of  Babylon. 
An  opal  lake  below  us  changed  and  waxed 
in  iridescent  glory  and  caused  whispers  of 
rapturous  interest.  And  the  mountain  we  were 
on  was  the  one  of  the  great  figure  nine  made 
of  snow,  which  had  so  thrilled  us  and  appalled 
us  when  we  saw  it  afar  at  night  some  days 
before.  When  we  had  gone  to  the  top  of  it 
we  had  reached  the  great  divide,  where  the 
waters  flow  north,  south,  and  west  toward 
Hudson's   Bay,    the   Gulf   of    Mexico,    and   the 


CLEAR  BLUE  65 

Pacific.  At  least,  so  the  topographers  assure  us, 
and  we  must  take  their  word.  Vachel  says  we 
will  not  wait  for  rain  and  see  the  rain-drops  hit 
the  mountain  top  and  divide  automatically  into 
three  parts. 

So  we  descended  at  dusk  into  a  verdant 
valley,  with  low  trees  growing  wide  apart,  and 
waist-high  flowering  daisies  and  basket  grass, 
and  sunflowers — all  as  fresh  and  fair  as  if 
gardened  for  us  yesterday.  There  were  serried 
ranks  of  flowers.  The  tall  mullein  stalks  be, 
came  so  thick  that  they  looked  like  a  wooden 
fencing  in  the  twilight.  Looking  upward  we 
saw  a  crimson  mountain,  a  brown  mountain, 
and  a  green  mountain.  Looking  downward, 
afar,  we  saw  many  forests,  separated  by  streams, 
sleeping  before  us.  And  we  slept  in  a  thicket 
and  were  made  music  to  by  the  nymphs  of  the 
seven  waterfalls  of  Shadow  Mountain. 

Vachel  Lindsay  belongs  to  a  sect  of  primitive 
Christians  called  "Disciples  of  Christ."  They 
are  followers  of  Alexander  Campbell,  and  are 
called  "Campbellites"  in  America,  much  as 
members  of  the  Catholic  and  Apostolic  com- 
munity are  called  Irvingites  in  England.     They 


66        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

are  akin  to  the  Baptists,  being  emphatically 
"immersionists."  Among  other  notable  people 
who  belong  to  this  brotherhood  is  Mr. 
Lloyd  George,  and  it  has  been  suggested 
that  the  British  statesman  be  asked  to  address 
a  general  convention  of  the  Disciples  if  he 
comes  to  America.  The  chief  virtue  in  the 
sect  lay  doubtless  in  an  attempted  return  to 
primitive  historical  Christianity  in  all  its  sim- 
plicity. Not  that  the  poet  is  a  narrow  sectarian. 
How  could  a  poet  be?  But  he  has  drunk 
deep  of  the  primitive  spirit  in  Christianity, 
and  is  very  near  to  children,  negroes,  Indians, 
and  the  elemental  types  in  men  'and  women. 
He  loves  oratory  more  than  reason,  and  impulse 
more  than  thought.  Hence,  no  doubt,  the  well 
of  his  poetry. 

We  talked  of  the  modern  cult  of  mediaevalism 
and  the  Chesterton-Belloc  group  as  we  resumed 
our  tramp,  and  we  discussed  G.  K.  Chesterton's 
visit  to  America.  Lindsay  felt  that  Chesterton 
counted  for  a  great  deal  in  America.  He 
was  not  merely  a  celebrity.  He  had  the 
reputation  of  a  Socrates  eager  to  converse  with 
youth.  But  when  he  came  to  America  he  did 
not    really    come.      "He    has    been    Barnumised 


CLEAR  BLUE  67 

as  Oliver  Lodge  was  Barnumised,"  said  the 
poet.  "It's  the  worst  of  commercialised  lectur- 
ing. Literary  lions  are  imported  by  specu- 
lative impresarios  and  then  put  to  the  American 
people  entirely  from  a  dollar  point  of  view. 
The  organisations  that  can  pay  five  hundred 
dollars  for  a  visit  get  their  Chesterton.  But 
how  about  the  universities  and  colleges  and 
small  groups,  the  real  intelligentsia  of  America 
— the  people  who  have  a  creative  interest  in 
what  a  thinker  and  critic  has  said  and  in  what 
he  says?  A  similar  mistake  was  made  with 
Alfred  Noyes,  who  was  booked  as  the  man 
who  made  poetry  pay.  It  created  a  false 
impression  and  did  much  injury  when  there 
was  an  opportunity  for  great  good."  Vachel 
Lindsay's  idea  is  that  two  or  three  literary 
men  and  women  should  be  chosen  each  year 
as  the  guests  of  the  nation,  and  that  they 
should  be  sponsored  by  the  magazines  and  the 
universities.  In  that  way  they  would  meet  the 
American  nation  and  not  merely  the  brassy  front 
of  American  business. 

With    this    subject    we    plunged    through    the 
rank  undergrowth  of  the   forest,    following  our 


6%        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

north-westerly  way,  which  should  bring  us  to 
St.  Mary's  Lake  and  the  steps  of  "Going  to 
the  Sun  Mountain."  We  gathered  our  first 
potful  of  black  currants  and  stewed  them  with 
sugar  for  our  luncheon,  and  we  had  our  daily 
dip  in  the  rushing  waters  of  Red  Eagle  Creek. 
It  was  a  warm  valley,  and  the  west  wind,  sur- 
charged with  moisture  from  the  Pacific,  had 
expressed  itself  in  a  great  floral  exuberance, 
in  ripe  raspberries,  currants,  and  gooseberries, 
and  in  forests  of  firs,  which  lay  against  the 
steep  mountain  sides  like  feathers  against  a 
bird's  wing. 

Vachel  indulged  his  passion  for  the  West 
and  all  that  the  West  means  to  an  American. 
He  has  memorised  at  some  time  or  other  the 
map  of  the  United  States,  and  can  draw  it  and 
put  in  all  the  States  in  a  few  minutes.  He 
drew  it  on  a  scrap  of  paper  as  we  rested  at 
sunset,  putting  in  the  far  Western  States  first 
— Washington  and  Oregon  like  two  sugar-boxes 
on  top  of  one  another,  and  then  the  key-shape 
of  Utah,  whose  southern  line  is  roughly  the 
southern  line  of  Colorado,  Kansas,  Missouri, 
Kentucky,  and  Virginia,  and  whose  northern 
line    is    the    northern    line    of    California    and 


CLEAR   BLUE  69 

Nevada,  and  approximately  of  Pennsylvania, 
Connecticut,  and  Rhode  Island. 

"California,"  says  he,  "is  a  whale  swimming 
around  the  desert  of  Nevada;  Idaho  is  a 
mountain  throne  and  its  curve  is  the  curve  of 
Montana.  Wyoming  fits  into  the  angle  of  Utah. 
New  Mexico  is  under  Colorado,  and  its  capital, 
Sante  Fe,  is  the  spiritual  capital  of  America. 
Texas  plunges  southward  like  a  root — don't 
draw  it  too  small.  Oklahoma  is  a  pistol  point- 
ing west.  Nebraska  is  another  pistol  pointing 
west.  North  and  South  Dakota  are  western 
blankets.  Louisiana  is  a  cavalier's  boot.  Illinois 
is  like  an  ear  of  Indian  corn.  Arkansas,  Mis- 
souri, and  Iowa  move  westward  with  the  slant 
of  the  mountains  and  the  rivers.  All  America, 
as  you  will  see,  has  a  grandiose  north-westerly- 
south-easterly  direction  or  kink  caused  by  the 
Rocky  Mountains  primarily,  and  by  the  Missis- 
sippi and  Missouri  Rivers  secondarily.  The 
Rocky  Mountans  control  the  continent.  That  is 
why  we  are  travelling  north-west.  It  is  quite 
natural.  It  is  America's  way.  It  is  written  in 
her  rocks  and  by  her  waters. 

"As  the  families  migrated  from  Virginia 
to     Kentucky     and     Illinois     and     Minnesota — 


70        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

so    we    go    following   nature's   trail    out    to    the 
wilderness." 

«4- 


North-west,  north-west! 
Give  us  north-westerly  breezes. 
Let  us  be  mad  north-north-west, 
Rather  than  southerly  sober  and  sane. 
Some  one  once  wrote  on  a  madhouse  wall, 
That  the  madder  we  were  the  nearer  to  God; 
The  saner,  the  further  from  Man. 
God  give  us  the  divine  kink 
North-north-west,  north-north-west, 
When  you  can't  tell  a  hawk  from  a  handsaw, — 
Hamlet  only  became  Hamlet  when  he  learned  the 
secret. 


you  HAve  cone  to  de  ALDNe  wrm 

YOUK     H6AM 


XL    NATIONAL   WILDERNESSES 

Glacier  in  Montana,  Yellowstone  in  Wyoming, 
Sequoia  and  Yosemite  in  California,  Grand 
Canyon  in  Arizona,  besides  Mount  McKinley 
in  Alaska  and  many  minor  reservations  and 
national  forests — they  ought  truly  to  be  called 
by  some  name  other  than  parks.  The  same 
also  is  true  for  Canada,  which  possesses  its 
wonderful  Dominion  Parks  such  as  those  of 
Waterton  and  Lake  Louise.  The  name  "park" 
has  evidently  been  given  to  popularise  them. 
Such  places  in  Russia  are  called  "wildernesses," 

71 


72        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

and  are  resorted  to  for  meditation.  They  are 
called  literally  "empty  places,"  the  same  word 
that  is  used  in  the  Bible  for  wilderness.  Tolstoy 
when  he  died  was  on  his  way  to  the  wilder- 
ness— to  the  "Empty  Place  of  Optin."  In 
England,  in  our  conventional  phrase,  we  should 
be  likely  to  call  them  "retreats,"  like  the  retreat 
on  the  Island  of  Iona.  But  the  idea  is  that  they 
should  provide  in  our  life  what  is  meant  when 
it  is  written:  The  Spirit  drove  Him  into  the 
wilderness;  or  He  went  up  into  the  mountain 
to  pray.  In  the  midst  of  the  hurly-burly  comes 
the  happy  thought — "I  will  arise  now  and  go 
to  my  wilderness,  to  my  retreat,  to  my  empty 
place." 

The  spiritual  background  of  Great  Britain 
is  in  the  mountains  of  the  North,  among  the 
Cumberland  Lakes  and  on  the  wild  border. 
Or  it  is  in  the  obscure  grandeur  of  the  Sussex 
Downs,  or  on  Dartmoor,  or  on  the  Welsh  hills. 
Small  though  the  mountains  may  be,  they  are 
continually  in  the  minds  of  English  people. 
The  way  of  escape  is  clear.  And  many  of  the 
bright  spirits  of  England  and  Scotland  have 
derived  their  strength  direct  from  the  hills. 
Byron  and  Scott  and   Ruskin   and  Wordsworth 


NATIONAL    WILDERNESSES        73 

drew  their  strength  from  the  hills.  Carlyle 
super-imposed  Ecclefechan  upon  Chelsea.  Even 
he  who  once  said  "London's  streets  are  paved 
with  gold"  was  driven  by  the  spirit  from  Batter- 
sea  to  Buckingham.  I  find  a  belief  in  the  wilder- 
ness strong  in  Vachel  Lindsay.  He  holds  that 
the  wild  West  has  been  and  still  must  be  the 
spiritual  lodestone  of  American  men.  Untamed 
America  has  remade  the  race.  Andrew  Jackson 
was  the  voice  of  the  West  of  his  day,  Abraham 
Lincoln  of  his.  And  though  New  England  has 
held  the  hegemony  of  letters  he  divines  that  the 
wilderness — the  mountains — will  be  the  source  of 
the  inspiration  of  the  coming  time.  Early 
America  derived  most  of  her  inspiration  from 
across  the  Atlantic.  Her  heart  was  outside  her 
body.  But  mature  America,  conscious  of  herself 
as  a  whole,  will  know  more  surely  that  she 
has  a  heart  and  a  soul  and  a  way  to  God  in 
herself. 

I  LOOK  to  a  time  when  national  wildernesses 
will  have  an  acknowledged  significance  in  our 
public  life,  when  men  and  women  of  all  classes 
of  life  will  naturally  retire  to  them  for  re- 
creation— as  naturally  as  people  used  to  go  to 


74        TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

church  on  Sundays  and  for  a  similar  reason. 
All  praise  to  the  foresight  and  energy  of 
Franklin  Lane,  the  late  American  Minister  of 
the  Interior,  that  enterprising  Canadian  who 
did  so  much  to  bring  the  people's  heritage 
before  their  eyes ! 

The  "See  America  First"  is  a  poor  slogan. 
It  is  like  "Do  Everything  Once"  and  "Buy 
him  a  Fountain  Pen."  The  question  should  be 
raised  to  a  higher  level.  People  need  not  visit 
Glacier  as  they  visit  Switzerland,  in  a  spirit  of 
curiosity.  Even  in  this  sophisticated  age  they 
can  come  as  pilgrims  of  Nature  as  easily  as 
they  can  come  as  tourists.  "Triangular  trips," 
"Four-day  tours,"  are  not  in  the  right  spirit. 
Time  is  immaterial. 

But  there  is  virtue  in  shoe-leather,  virtue  in 
the  saddle  of  the  horse.  Not  much  virtue  in 
guides,  in  hotels.  You  come  to  these  places 
to  be  alone  with  Nature  or  you  do  not  arrive. 

So  much  for  the  idea  and  possibilities  of  the 
national  parks.  Lindsay  showed  me  a  portfolio 
of  descriptions  of  them  when  he  was  in  London, 
and  he  did  much  to  persuade  young  English- 
men  interested   in   America    to    visit  them,    go 


NATIONAL  WILDERNESSES        75 

tramp  in  them.  And  though  of  course  we  had 
heard  in  a  dim  way  of  Yellowstone  Park  and  of 
the  Indian  reservations  both  in  the  United  States 
and  in  Canada  it  was  a  novelty  for  us.  But  Eng- 
lishmen are  born  trampers  and  lovers  of  the 
wilderness,  and  are  ready  to  reverse  the  Amer- 
ican proverb — Why  walk  if  you  can  ride? — and 
put  it,  Why  ride  when  you  can  walk?  And  I 
shall  not  be  the  first  Englishman  to  seek  re- 
freshment hiking  through  the  wild  places  of  the 
West. 

We  talked  of  this  exuberantly  as  we  clam- 
bered through  the  forests  on  the  side  of  Little 
Chief  Mountain,  and  it  was  still  our  theme  in 
the  evening  when  we  lighted  our  fires  in  a 
vast  rock  temple  and  chasm  down  into  which 
tumbled  dark  water,  glittering  and  hastening 
as  it  flowed  downward  to  the  valleys.  How 
to  say  a  word  for  national  wildernesses  in  this 
sedentary  era  of  the  world's  history,  how  to 
say  a  word  for  true  religion  and  quiet  and  the 
things  of  the  spirit!  Vachel  Lindsay  will  no 
doubt  dramatise  the  subject  in  one  fine  Western 
epic  some  day,  and  I  make  my  appeal,  as  I  have 
done  before,  in  prose,  as  for  the  wildernesses  of 
Europe,  so  also  for  the  wildernesses  of  America. 


76        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

But  whether  we  write  or  sing  of  what  we  feel 
or  see,  one  thing  is  sure  when  we  are  done — 
we  shall  have  lived  apart  and  tramped  and 
meditated  upon  the  mountains  and  far  in  the 
wilderness  and  it  will  mean  something  in  our 
lives. 


What  wish  you  to-day,  dear  tramp? 

What  wish  you  for  brother-man? 

Why,  just  this: — 

The  quality  of  mountain-sides  in  the  colour  of  his 

eyes, 
The  deep  of  stars  in  the  lake  of  his  soul, 
Feet  that  have  learned  to  leap, 
And  a  spirit  that  longs  to  fly. 
That's  what  I  wish,  dear  brother,  to-day, 
Said  the  tramp. 


\ 


^""tllUjj 


hia 


\ 


SBtS 


XII.    GOING   WEST 


<», 


We  love  inspirational  phrases  such  as  to  go 
West"  which  sprang  on  to  men's  lips  in  the 
Great  War,  and  was  a  way  of  saying  "to  die," 
which  was  startlingly  poetic,  seeing  that  it 
came  from  the  soul  of  those  masses  usually  ad- 
mitted to  be  so  vulgar.  "He's  gone  West," 
men  said  with  a  hushed  voice,  meaning  that 
like  so  many  who  had  passed  before,  he  had 
gone — to  another  world,  to  beyond  the  setting 
sun.     The   phrase   was   not   current   among   the 

77 


78        TRAMPING  WITH  A   POET 

American  soldiers,  but  I  have  heard  of  an 
equally  wonderful  expression  used  by  the 
mountaineers,  who  said:  "He  has  crossed  the 
Great  Divide." 

My  mind  is  inevitably  drawn  to  these 
thoughts  as  we  face  so  often  the  setting  sun, 
as  we  cross  the  pinnacles  of  our  momentary 
aspirations,  the  passes,  the  divides  which  sepa- 
rate sky  from  sky  and  valley  from  valley. 

Lindsay  is  also  constantly  enwrapped  by  the 
romance  of  Going  West — the  historic  and  poetic 
Western  movement  which  has  pulsated  humanity 
since  the  hordes  and  their  caravans  stampeded 
across  Asia  in  the  days  which  are  almost 
before  history.  What  was  it,  what  is  it  that 
hypnotises  us — is  it  not  the  sun  which,  rising 
in  the  morning,  calls  all  his  children  after 
him  all  day  and  bids  them  follow  when  at 
last  he  plunges  into  night  and  nothing- 
ness? 

"Have  courage,"  says  the  sun  in  the  evening. 
"Have  faith,"  say  the  stars  all  the  night  long. 
"You  see,  I  rise  again;  you  will  rise,"  says  the 
sun  in  the  morning.  "This  way,  this  way,"  he 
says   till    noon,    and    "Follow,    follow,"    all    the 


GOING  WEST  79 

afternoon,  and  then  once  more,  "Behold!  I  go. 
Have  courage!"  he  says  in  the  evening  again. 
And  that  sets  young  hearts  a-beating,  that 
kindles  the  poet's  flame  and  enlarges  the  spirit  and 
makes  the  way  of  the  world. 

That  makes  us  all  nomads,  all  gypsies,  all 
pilgrims.  That  draws  the  steps  of  the  willing, 
and  even  the  unwilling  find  themselves  borne 
along  by  a  human  tide  and  a  sliding  sand  of 
time — away  to  the  west  and  the  night  and  the 
other  country.  No  one  can  stay,  even  if  he 
will.  In  time  all  must  go,  all  must  follow  the 
sun  and  cross  the  Divide  and  go  down  the 
slopes  of  the  umimaginable  other  side  and  be 
with  the  stars  in  the  long,  hungry  night,  the 
myriads  of  stars  that  never  do  anything  else  but 
look  down  on  human  souls  and  ask  of  us  and 
stare  at  us  and  dream  of  us.  The  night  of 
stars  for  all  of  us,  and  then  with  our  Father 
and  guide,  far  o'er  these  mountains,  wan  and 
tired,  but  gleaming  and  then  resplendent,  we 
lift  our  eyes  to  the  other  country,  the  dreamed- 
of,  hoped-for  country — and  it  is  morning  and 
we  are  still  with  the  light  that  we  followed 
yesterday. 


80        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

"The  old  prairie  schooners,"  says  Lindsay, 
"blundered  forward  on  the  western  way,  day 
after  day,  season  after  season,  sometimes  for 
years,  for  the  pioneers  often  worked  their  way 
to  the  Virgin  Land  which  they  had  taken  for 
goal.  Often,  indeed,  they  died  on  the  way, 
they  broke  down  on  the  way.  Each  yearned  to 
the  West  even  as  they  failed  and  threw  their  spirits 
westward,  like  Douglases  carrying  the  heart  of 
Bruce  to  the  Promised  Land.  The  primitive  in- 
stinct for  moving  was  awakened  by  the  road  and 
many  a  pioneer  found  happiness  in  the  going  as 
much  as  in  the  attainment." 

We  ourselves  are  going  westward  now,  rather 
than  north-west,  and  the  sun  beckons  us.  For  the 
mountain  we  are  now  setting  out  to  reach  has  been 
called  by  the  Indians  "Going-to-the-Sun."  It 
stands  over  and  beyond  St.  Mary's  Lake  and 
climbs  heavenward  in  gigantic  steps  of  stone.  It 
steps  from  the  forest  to  the  rocks,  from  the  rocks 
to  the  snow,  from  the  snow  to  the  sky.  It  is  a 
mighty  cathedral,  standing  in  the  midst  of  prosaic 
mountains,  surely  one  of  the  most  beautiful  and 
majestic  of  these  mountains,  symbolic  in  its  shape 
and  its  ancient  name.  We  have  slept  on  the  mossy 
earth  at  the  foot  of  the  pines.  We  will  arise  and 
go  to  the  sun. 


GOING   WEST 


Si 


«<c 


There* 's  some  one  calling  you: 
Arise,  sleepy-head, 
Arise  from  your  bed! 
A  messenger  is  peeping, 
There  where  you're  sleeping: 
For  the  day's  been  begun 
By  your  master  the  sun, 
And  you  surely  will  follow. 


C  KO  S  S  I  N  G 


CkEAT 


XIII.    CLIMBING   RED  EAGLE 


We  journeyed  through  the  primeval  forest 
without  a  trail  to  guide  us,  through  the  jagged, 
thorny,  tumultuous  pine  wilderness.  It  was  not 
so  easy  for  Lindsay,  whose  legs  are  shorter 
than  mine,  but  he  took  it  as  a  game  of  banter 
leader  and  moved  forward  doggedly  into  the 
openings  I  made.  We  were  glad  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  thousands  of  wind-smitten  trees  which 
lay  dead,  piled  at  every  angle  and  piled  on  one 
another. 

82 


CLIMBING   RED   EAGLE  83 

We  climbed  upward  for  miles  on  the  white, 
smooth,  dead  timber  of  fallen  trees,  balancing 
and  jumping,  transferring  from  trunk  to  trunk, 
and  clambering  over  the  immense  stars  of  up- 
turned roots.  We  were  rewarded  at  length 
by  a  view  of  the  rocks  above  the  tree  line 
and  of  a  tumbling  cascade.  This  was  in  the  di- 
rection we  required  and  we  made  for  it  and 
lunched  by  the  cascade  become  rivulet,  and  then 
climbed  all  the  afternoon  by  rock  stairs  to  the 
snow. 

At  six  beside  a  "bride-veil  waterfall,"  we  had 
suoper.  Above  us  was  an  amphitheatre  of  red 
rocks  and  ruined  slate  and  it  seemed  but  a  small 
climb  to  the  top  of  the  mountain.  The  gradient 
was  steep  and  there  were  large  quantities  of  loose 
stones.  We  climbed  without  intermittence  until 
9  o'clock  at  night,  and  as  one  top  was 
nearly  conquered  another  top  seemed  to  be 
added.  The  amphitheatre  receded  upward  to 
heaven. 

How  arduous  it  was  and  at  times  how  risky! 
Massive  stones  on  which  we  relied  to  place  our 
feet  proved  to  be  only  passengers  like  ourselves 
upon  the  mountain  and  at  a  touch  from  us  re- 
sumed    their     downward     track,     clashing     and 


84        TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

smashing  from  rock  to  rock.  We  came  to  steep 
banks  of  shale  which  moved  en  masse  with  the 
weight  of  our  bodies  and  we  lay  flat  on  them  and 
slid  with  them  unwillingly  and  fearfully.  Never- 
theless we  did  make  great  progress  upward,  and 
if  we  did  not  conquer  the  mountain  on  which  we 
were  we  at  least  conquered  some  peaks  that  were 
behind  us.  We  entered  the  society  of  the 
mountains.  The  mighty  eminences  and  august 
personalities  of  the  southward  view  came  into  our 
Een. 

The  sun  went  down,  the  shadows  below  us 
deepened,  the  snow  banks  multiplied  themselves 
in  number,  and  their  outlines  and  suggestive- 
ness  intensified  as  the  valley  whence  we 
had  arisen  lost  its  trees  and  changed  to  a  vast 
blank  abyss.  Our  unfailing  wonder  when  we 
sat  down  on  a  stone  to  regain  our  lost  breath 
was  the  multitudinous  terrain  of  awful,  wrathful 
mountain  peaks  which  in  indescribable  pro- 
miscuity had  climbed  the  horizon  wall  to  stare 
at  us. 

Vachel  confessed  to  being  dizzy  and  dared 
hardly  look  downward  whence  we  had  come. 
He  preferred  to  look  upward,  and  it  was  always 


CLIMBING   RED  EAGLE  85 

"three  more  dashes  and  we'll  be  there,"  though 
instead  of  three  we  made  thirty. 

Our  mountain  at  length  seemed  to  show  the 
last  limits  and  to  be  crowned  by  a  sort  of 
Roman  wall.  We  came  in  view  of  a  long, 
serried,  level  grey  rock  which  ran  evenly  along 
the  mountain  brow  like  a  fortification,  and  in 
the  midst  of  it  was  a  way  of  stone  steps  and  a 
gap.  I  got  up  through  the  hole  in  the  wall 
and  hauled  up  Lindsay's  pack  after  me,  and  he 
followed. 

But  when  we  got  on  top  it  was  flat,  but  it  was 
not  the  top.  We  lay  full  length  there  and  ate 
raisins  and  looked  upward  over  another  field  of 
shale  and  loose  boulders,  and  a  cold  wind  as  from 
the  Pole  swept  across.  We  watched  the  first 
stars  appear  and  talked  of  finding  a  sheltered 
ledge  somewhere  and  sleeping  on  it  or  at 
least  waiting  on  it  till  morning.  But  secretly 
we  still  had  a  strong  hold  on  hope.  Mountain 
tops  are  only  to  be  conquered,  and  we  would  not 
give  in. 

"The  other  sky  beyond  the  mountain  ridge  is  on 
tiptoe  waiting  for  us,"  said  I. 

It    should   be    explained    that    the    mountains 


86        TRAMPING   WITH   A    POET 

here  are  nearly  all  "razor-edges."  When  you  have 
climbed  sheer  up  to  the  top  you  have  to  climb 
sheer  down  the  other  side.  Plateaus  and  table 
mountains  are  rare. 

The  mountain  "cirques"  and  ridges  actually  cut 
the  great  sky  in  two  and  you  can  only  join  the  two 
pieces  of  it  at  the  top. 

However,  when,  after  another  forty  minutes 
of  picking  our  way  upward,  we  did  actually 
reach  the  summit  no  new  sky  greeted  us.  In- 
deed, I  shrank  back  aghast  from  the  dreadful 
view  that  I  saw.  For  the  mountain  swept 
downward  in  long,  swift  and  severe  lines  into 
a  funnel  of  Erebus  darkness.  We  stood  perched 
at  a  gigantic  height  above  the  world,  and  it 
was  black  night  with  an  abyss  both  behind  and  in 
front  of  us. 

You  could  stand  on  the  top  of  the  mountain 
and  see  the  two  dreadful  views,  on  the  one  side 
scores  and  fifties  of  wrathful,  staring  mountains 
and  on  the  other  a  purgatorial  abyss  for  lost 
souls. 

We  dared  not  start  a  descent  so  we  slept  on 
the  top  of  the  mountain.  I  lay  on  a  narrow 
ledge  and  slumbered  and  waked.  And  Vachel, 
who    was    hypnotised    by   the    abyss,    would   not 


CLIMBING    RED    EAGLE  87 

He  down  for  fear  he  might  fall  off  or  might  get 
up  in  his  sleep  and  jump.  So  he  sat  like  a  fakir 
the  whole  night  long,  looking  unwaveringly  on  one 
fixed  spot. 

"Our  friends  all  lie  in  their  soft  beds  with 
their  heads  on  pillows  of  down,"  I  thought, 
"far  away  in  the  valleys  and  across  the  plains, 
in  snug,  comfortable  homes,  and  we  lie  on 
rocky,  jagged  edges  on  the  very  top  of  a  great 
mountain,  far  from  human  ken." 

We  seemed  as  much  nearer  the  stars  as  we 
were  further  away  from  mankind.  Venus  was 
like  a  diamond  cut  out  of  the  sun,  and  she 
lifted  an  unearthly  splendour  high  into  the 
sooty  devouring  darkness  of  the  night.  In 
other  parts  of  the  sky  the  meteors  shot  laconic- 
ally in  and  out  as  if  on  errands  for  the  planets. 
Cold  winds  ravaged  the  heights,  but  they  did 
not  roar.  For  the  forests  were  far  away. 
And  there  was  no  sound  of  waters — only  the 
long  slow  threatening  roll  and  splurge  of  loose 
rocks  continually  detaching  themselves  from 
the  heights  and  slipping  downward  to  per- 
dition. 

I  lay  and  I  lay,  and  Vachel  sat  unmoving, 
and  we  heard,  as  it  were,  the  pulse  of  the  world. 


88 


TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 


We  did  not  see  humanity's  prayers  going  up 
to  God.  We  only  saw  the  stars  and  the 
night. 


«4r 


If  you  join  the  mountain-peak  club 

You'll  notice  the  old  members  stare  at  you, 

Call  you  silently  a  parvenu,  interloper,  upstart. 

Upstart  you  are,  of  course, 

But  never  mind,  you've  got  a  rise  in  the  world. 

No  use  trying  to  outstare  the  mountains 

Sitting  in  their  arms-chairs ,  nursing  their  gouty 

feet. 
Be  a  social  climber  still, 
Aspire  higher, 

And  be  put  up  as  soon  as  you  can 
For  the  club  of  Heaven's  stars. 


WHEJVE 
GO  THE 


rm    ANTELOP*.    wru 
WILL  FOLLOW 


* 


XIV.    DOING  THE  IMPOSSIBLE 


Blessings  for  dawn  and  the  rosy  lights  and 
for  the  cloudlessness  of  the  morning!  Had 
mist  enshrouded  us  we  should  have  had  to 
have  remained  high  up  on  the  slippery  knife- 
edge  of  the  mountain  till  the  mist  had  passed. 
We  were  able  to  descend,  cautiously,  cautiously, 
for  three  hours  in  a  trackless  precipitous  zig- 
zag to  the  red  peak  of  a  lower  mountain  and 
a    high    snow-bound    lake,    where    we    made    a 

89 


90        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

good  fire  and  made  coffee  with  our  last  coffee, 
and  lay  down  again  and  slept.  Then  we  washed 
in  the  snow  and  ceased  to  be  old  weather-beaten 
tramps  and  recaptured  our  yesterdays  and  our 
youth,  and  Vachel  began  to  sing  again  and  our 
knapsacks  felt  lighter,  as  indeed  they  were,  for 
we  had  eaten  up  all  the  rations,  even  the  iron 
rations. 

Then  we  walked  to  the  valley  of  the  Sun- 
Mountain  adown  the  rocks  of  a  continuous 
cascade.  The  descent  to  the  snow-bound  lake 
and  the  red  peak  had  seemed  impossible,  and 
we  essayed  the  impossible  again.  It  was  not 
merely  a  polite  walk  downstairs.  Every  step 
that  we  took  was  a  problem.  We  used  our 
hands  and  the  strength  of  our  wrists  as  much 
as  our  feet  and  the  tension  of  our  ankles.  Con- 
stantly were  we  faced  with  fifteen  to  twenty-foot 
drops  on  to  narrow  ledges,  where  a  balance  must 
be  kept  when  we  alighted. 

No  doubt  I  am  by  nature  a  mountaineer 
and  hillsman,  half  a  Highlander,  at  least,  and 
Vachel's  genius  is  the  genius  of  the  plains. 
I  am  an  antelope  and  he  is  a  bear,  we  tell  each 
other. 

"You     lead,"     says     Vachel.       "Where     the 


DOING   THE   IMPOSSIBLE  91 

antelope  will  go  the  bear  will  follow  after  him, 
but  the  antelope  will  not  follow  the  bear." 

So  he  followed  downward,  and  we  took  the 
most  abominable  chances  of  breaking  our  legs 
or  our  necks — we  had  to  take  them.  Then 
presently  we  came  to  what  seemed  a  full  forty- 
foot  sheer  drop  of  foaming  water — an  impossible 
descent,  you  would  say,  for  all  the  grasp  and 
grip  in  it  was  water-washed  and  water-smoothed 
by  ages  of  water — impossible,  impossible.  But 
no,  face  it,  think  it  over,  it  can  be  managed. 
O  caution,  caution !  Trust  yourself  to  the 
Almighty  Protector  and  grit  your  teeth! 

Timidity  fought  daring  all  the  way  down. 
We  sat  once  or  twice,  and  regarded  the  view. 
One  thing  was  certain:  we  could  not  climb 
back  to  the  places  we  had  come  from.  If  we 
did  not  continue  downward  we  had  to  remain 
where  we  were. 

We  did  things  which  one  does  not  do  with- 
out guides  and  ropes  and  the  paraphernalia  of 
mountaineering,  and  when  we  got  down  to  the 
tortured  fissured  rocks  below  the  cataract  we 
looked  up  whence  we  had  come  and  said  again 
to  ourselves,  "Impossible,  impossible  J" 


92        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

And  as  in  going  up  the  mountain  the 
winning  of  the  summit  was  continually  deferred, 
so  in  descending  to  the  valley  we  only  con- 
quered one  steep  mountain  slope  to  be  presented 
with  another  steep  mountain  slope  and  another 
series  of  terraces  and  another  impossibility. 

Perhaps  no  one  ever  came  this  way  over 
the  mountains  unless  it  was  some  adventurous 
Indian,  but  even  Indians  do  not  venture  where 
horse  cannot  go.  I  remember  as  one  of  the 
most  remarkable  passages  of  our  descent  an 
hour  we  spent  in  a  subarboreal  channel  shut 
out  from  the  light  of  day,  a  jagged  downward 
plunge  where  the  stream  fell  away  in  darkness 
while  in  voluminous  curves  the  thick  sallow 
roofed  it  in.  We  made  a  hanging  descent, 
clinging  to  handfuls  of  branches  of  sallow  and 
swaying  and  sagging  and  dropping,  and  then 
touching  rock  with  a  dangling  foot,  and  then 
clutching  another  lower  bunch  of  branches 
and  letting  ourselves  down  again,  downward, 
downward. 

But  it  all  ended  well,  for  we  came  at  last  to 
sheets  of  sliding  shale  and  then  to  a  spacious 
forest.     And  we  had  been  saved  from  all  mis- 


DOING  THE    IMPOSSIBLE  93 

chance,  and  the  silence  which  danger  had 
gradually  imposed  on  us  was  broken. 

"Bread,  beauty,  and  freedom  is  all  that  man 
requires,"  cried  Vachel,  "and  now  I'll  translate 
it  into  fire,  water,  and  a  place  to  sleep." 

These  we  found,  and  one  by  one  the  stars 
discovered  us  when  they  peeped  through  the 
branches  of  the  lofty  pines.  They  saw  us 
where  we  lay  now  far  away  below,  stretched 
out  beside  the  embers  of  our  fire  and  luxuriating 
in  its  warmth  like  cats. 

We  boiled  a  pot  of  black  currants  and  wild 
gooseberries  and  we  ate  it  to  the  last  berry, 
though,  as  the  poet  said  afterwards,  it  was  a 
quart  of  concentrated  quinine.  And  we  made 
a  rosy  layer  of  wild  black-currant  candy  in  the 
frying-pan  which  was  not  allowed  to  remain 
long  unconsumed.  We  had  no  food  in  our 
knapsacks,  only  a  little  sugar,  but  we  counted 
ourselves  happy  though  hungry  because  we 
had  been  up  on  top  of  a  great  mountain  and 
had  come  down. 

"A  joy  to  the  heart  of  a  man  is  a  goal  that 
he  may  not  reach,"  says  Swinburne.  And  a 
greater  joy  still  is  the  joy  of  reaching  it.  That 
is  what  we  have  been  doing  all  day. 


94        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

"Call  it  'Doing  the  Impossible'  and  think- 
ing well  of  ourselves,"  adds  the  poet  when  I  read 
this  to  him : 


4 


"My  master  builder!"  said  the  lady 

When  she  made  the  master  builder 

Climb  to  the  top  of  his  new  building, 

Risking  his  life  and  doing  the  impossible  a  second 

time. 
She  made  him  do  it,  but  he  doing  it  was  a  hero. 
He  showed  his  manhood  to  her 
By  doing  something  that  could  not  be  done. 
"The  impossible  or  nothing"  be  our  cry. 
Don't  you  loathe  the  perfectly  possible? 
I  do. 


XV.    PEOPLE    IN    CAMP 

A  day's  steady  tramping  brought  us  to  a  camp, 
and  then  we  bathed  in  St.  Mary's  Lake  and 
washed  every  separate  item  of  linen,  even  that 
which  we  wore,  and  we  sun-baked  ourselves  on 
the  hot  beach  while  the  clothes  dried,  and  we 
made  a  clean  appearance  at  last  among  fair 
women  and  brave  men,  and  we  took  supplies  on 
which  to  vagabondise  for  days  on  the  slopes  of 
Going-to-the-Sun  Mountain. 

It  was  a  curious  experience  to  be  absolutely 
alone    on    the    mountains     so    long    and    then 

95 


96        TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

suddenly  to  come  on  a  large  congregation  of 
tourists.  Going-to-the-Sun  Camp  is  a  spec- 
tacular point  in  the'  recognised  tour  of  Glacier 
Wilderness. 

"We  are  doing  the  four  days'  tour,"  is  the 
common  explanation  which  visitors  gave  us. 
Or,  "We  are  making  the  triangular  trip." 

One's  eyes  naturally  rest  on  the  ladies,  who 
are  nearly  all  in  seeming  male  attire,  and  some 
of  this  attire  fits  and  some  does  not;  some  of  it 
suggests  homes  where  men  are  rare  and 
breeches  have  to  be  imported.  But  they  all 
look  pretty  well  in  this  simplicity.  Girls  in 
mauve  and  violet  jumpers,  shiny  leather  belts, 
and  leg-o'-mutton  breeches  sit  with  us  at  supper 
and  explain  that  to-day  was  their  first  day  on  a 
horse — and  they  know  it.  "Are  you  tired?" 
say  I.  "You  can  tell  the  world,"  is  the  reply. 
Near  us  stands  a  girl  in  tan  riding  costume, 
violet  stockings,  white  shoes,  and  bobbed  brown 
hair  in  a  hair  net.  She  is  talking  to  two  well- 
built  youths,  standing  with  their  legs  apart,  and 
the  girl,  imitating  their  styles,  droops  forward 
to  them  as  they  chaff  one  another.  She  will 
not  stray  far.  The  same  may  be  said  of  a 
well-fed   lady   of   sixty,   pampered   and   neurotic, 


PEOPLE   IN   CAMP  97 

but  sitting  in  a  riding  jacket  and  very  baggy 
breeches  and  nervously  smelling  at  an  ammonia 
bottle.  Grandma  in  trousers  is  rather  portentous. 
But  how  describe  the  charm  of  the  little 
boy  and  girl,  children  of  twelve  and  thirteen, 
accoutred  also  for  the  horse  and  sitting  on 
their  steeds  with  the  grace  of  Indians.  The 
old  and  middle-aged  are  stiff  and  only  the 
children  look  as  if  they  could  never  get  tired. 
In  any  case,  all  is  good  humour  and  jollity. 
Mme.  Censure  is  not  here.  There  are  people 
with  crumpled  faces  and  there  are  people  made 
of  dimples  and  curves — but  happiness  holds 
all. 

We  did  not  see  very  much  of  the  tourist  life. 
There  is  not  much  of  it  up  here.  There  ought 
probably  to  be  more.  While  Yosemite,  Grand 
Canyon  and  Yellowstone  are  visited  by  hundreds 
of  thousands  of  Americans,  Glacier  is  left  un- 
used. We  do  not  want  its  canyons  also  to  be 
filled  up  to  the  top  with  cans,  but  no  one  would 
grudge  a  few  more  people  in  a  wilderness  where 
you  can  travel  weeks  without  meeting  a  soul — a 
few  more  sharers  in  the  loveliness  of  the  North- 
ern Rockies, 


98        TRAMPING   WITH   A    POET 

A  number  of  camps  have  been  made  with 
log  cabins  and  canvas  tents,  and  there  are  two 
large  hotels  on  the  fringe  of  the  wilderness. 
But  an  especial  charm  lies  in  the  fact  that  the 
people  in  charge  of  the  camps  and  the  little 
inns  called  "chalets"  are  mostly  university 
students  and  college  girls  of  the  institutions  of 
Minnesota  and  Montana,  and  they  do  the 
needful  work  on  the  self-help  principle  of  earn- 
ing a  little  money  in  their  holidays  to  pay  their 
way  during  term.  There  is  nothing  of  the  low 
commercial  spirit,  no  one  hanging  around  for 
a  tip,  no  one  with  any  interest  to  treat  you 
shabbily,  but  instead  the  natural  good  manners 
of  unspoiled  people.  You  see  the  choleric 
"colonel"  trying  to  get  more  than  his  share  of 
attention  and  service,  but  he  doesn't  effect 
anything,  and  you  may  see  the  millionaire 
cheerfully  and  shrewdly  recognising  the  fact 
that  he  must  take  his  turn  after  his  stenographer 
and  perhaps  after  a  couple  of  ragged  old  tramps 
like  ourselves. 

Vachel  is  devoted  to  the  universities  and  high 
schools  of  America  and  the  life  they  represent. 
He    has    almost    completely    changed    his    con- 


PEOPLE   IN   CAMP  99 

stituency  from  the  "ladies'  club"  and  the  heavy 
society  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Leo  Hunter  and  is 
now  a  poetic  voice  of  young  germinal  America. 
He  has  "covered  the  map"  of  the  United  States 
singing  his  songs  to  college  youths.  And  in 
return  college  youth  recognises  him  quickly. 
He  is  a  natural  favourite  among  those  who 
run  the  "chalets."  And  they  all  wanted  him  to 
"sing"  to  them. 

Not  that  the  visitors  do  not  also  make 
friends  with  us  and  we  with  them.  Such  coats 
of  sunshirre  as  we  have  make  ordinary  sunburn 
pale  and  give  us  much  glamour.  Souvenir 
huntresses  grab  us  from  a  "big  ballyhoo" 
Western  town.  Likewise,  a  girl  from  Chicago, 
pronounced  in  three  facial  contortions.  And 
when  we  set  off  to  vagabondise  for  some  days 
we  were  followed  by  a  beautiful  creature  who 
wished  for  a  minute  to  come  with  us  to 
the  world's  end. 


*  t* 


ioo      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 


The  tramps  have  gone  to  sleep 

Nearer  to  the  skies; 

Oh  ladies,  sweet  ladies, 

Do  stop  rolling  your  eyes. 

The  tramps  have  gone  away 

To  seek  their  paradise; 

Oh  ladies,  sweet  ladies, 

Do  stop  rolling  your  eyes. 

The  tramps  have  taken  with  them 

The  best  of  apple  pies, 

They're  not  prepared  to-day 

To  take  on  extra  ties. 

So  ladies,  sweet  ladies, 

Do  stop  rolling  your  eyes. 


HE     IS     ONLY    A 
WILD    BLAST    WHEN 
TREATED     L1K.E    A  WILD 
BE  AST 


+r 


XVI.    VISITED  BY  BEARS 


I  retain  very  cheerily  in  mind  from  Russia 
the  memory  of  the  typical  Russian  saint  who 
lived  in  the  woods  and  was  so  holy  that  the 
bears  approached  without  malice  and  took  what 
the  saint  could  spare  of  the  store  of  crusts 
on  which  he  lived.  The  unfortunate  Tsarina 
when  she  desired  so  religiously  a  male  heir, 
went  to   the  shrine  of  Seraphim   in  the   "empty 

IOI 


102       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

place"  of  Arzamas  to  pray  for  one.  And  the 
most  famous  thing  about  St.  Seraphim  was  his 
love  of  the  bears.  He  is  nearly  always  depicted 
in  popular  oleographs  feeding  the  bears  with 
bread,  and  in  Russian  ikons  the  bear  is  the 
national  emblem  of  the  primitive  nature  of 
Russia  and  the  saint  is  the  emblem  of  Christ. 

On  the  other  hand,  I  remember  also  my 
good  old  friend  Alexander  Beekof,  a  hunter 
of  bears  who  had  himself  snapshotted  facing 
in  the  snowy  forest  the  upstanding,  snarling, 
dangerous  beast  which  presently  he  was  to  lay 
low.  And  since  we  are  thinking  of  bears,  I  call 
to  mind  how  I  saw  last  winter  little  baby  bears, 
dressed  up  in  ribbons  and  fed  with  milk  from  a 
pap-bottle,  hawked  for  sale  by  refugee  Russians 
from  street  to  street  in  Constantinople — pets 
to  put  in  the  nursery  with  your  children, 
astonishing  little  rompers  and  ideal  players  of 
hide  and  seek.  I  have  wondered  about  the 
bear  as  we  wonder  now  about  the  Russian 
as  to  just  what  sort  of  an  animal  he  is.  Is 
he  only  a  wild  beast  when  treated  like  a  wild 
beast,  but  otherwise  tame  in  the  presence  of 
saints  and  children?  Or  is  he  a  wild  beast 
all  the  while? 


VISITED   BY   BEARS  103 

This  problem  we  evidently  went  to  the 
Rocky  Mountains  to  solve.  For  there  we 
met  the  bears,  and  even  if  we  may  not  have 
the  haloes  of  the  saints  we  hope  to  find  a 
place  among  the  children. 

Not  that  we  were  entirely  ready  for  the  over- 
tures of  Brother  Bear,  and  it  is  true  that  we 
frightened  some  bears  away,  but  later  we  got 
on  good  terms.  I  saw  the  first  bear  on  "Going- 
to-the-Sun"  Mountain.  No  one,  of  course, 
is  allowed  to  shoot  bears  in  Glacier  National 
Park,  though  it  is  not  many  years  since  hunters 
hunted  them  there  with  Indians  and  with  dogs, 
and  one  may  read  of  the  bear-hunting  ad- 
ventures of  Emerson  Hough  and  others.  Now 
without  dogs  or  guns  the  bear  has  been  won 
over  and  he  has  ceased  ot  fear  mankind. 

It  was  a  beautiful  morning  and  Vachel  had 
been  sitting  in  Baring  Creek,  letting  Balchis, 
as  he  called  the  waterfall,  flow  over  him,  and 
he  was  now  lying  in  a  blanket  on  the  ferns  and 
meditating  when  I  heard  an  unwonted  stump, 
stump,  crash,  in  the  undergrowth. 

"Is  it  a  man?"     I  asked. 

Crash,    stump,    stump,     it    went    again,     and 


io4       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

peering  through  the  trees  I  saw  a  black  bear 
coming  towards  us,  glossy  and  shaggy.  I 
called  Vachel,  but  at  that  the  bear  stopped 
short,  raised  his  intent,  listening  ears  and  then 
made  away  from  us  in  another  direction.  We 
saw  no  more  of  him. 

After  that  I  recognised  the  sound  of  the 
bear's  feet  in  the  forest,  quite  a  characteristic 
sound,  and  we  knew  there  were  many  bears. 
But  the  next  occasion  of  a  personal  encounter 
was  some  weeks  later  near  Heaven's  Peak. 
Vachel  had  got  himself  an  extra  long  wisp  of 
old  canvas  from  a  ruined  tent.  We  slept  by 
a  large  fire,  and  when  the  fire  went  out  a  bear 
came  to  us.  Vachel  and  I  were  lying  close  to 
one  another  and  both  had  our  blankets  over 
our  faces,  for  it  was  cold.  Vachel,  as  he  told 
me  afterwards,  was  awakened  by  something 
and  lay  listening  to  my  breathing.  He  thought 
to  himself,  "Stephen  is  certainly  making  a 
terrible  racket;  he  must  have  a  cold";  and 
then  he  thought  again  lazily  and  unsuspectingly, 
"Stephen  surely  must  have  caught  a  cold  to  be 
snuffing  and  snorting  in  that  way."  Then  he 
thought  again,  "He  seems  to  be  moving  about, 
I  wonder  what  he's  doing." 


VISITED   BY   BEARS  105 

Then  Vachel  put  his  head  out  of  his  blanket 
and  what  should  he  see  standing  beside  us  but 
a  big  black  bear.  As  for  me,  I  was  sleeping 
like  a  babe,  and  the  bear  apparently  had  been 
snuffing  at  me  to  see  whether  I  were  live  meat 
or  dead  meat.  Vachel  gave  one  terrific  shout. 
"The  Son  of  a  Gun/'  said  he,  and  I  wakened  up. 
"Wake  up,  Stephen;  it's  a  bear,"  said  he. 
At  this  Brother  Bear  walked  across  from  my 
side,  where  I  had  a  pile  of  boiled  eggs,  which 
he  had  scattered,  and  leisurely  began  to  knock 
our  tin  cans  about  on  the  other  side  and  try 
and  find  the  ham  which  we  had  bought  the  day 
before.  In  a  most  unsaintly  way  we  drove  him 
off.  We  forgot  the  example  of  St.  Seraphim, 
and  Brother  Bear  was  fain  to  depart.  I  re- 
pented too  late  and  followed  the  old  scallywag 
up  the  moon-bathed  forest  glade  quite  a  way. 
But  he  would  not  be  called  by  his  pet  name 
after  the  abuse  we  had  hurled  at  him  and  went 
away  and  away  till  he  was  lost  in  the  moon- 
beams. "He  was  smelling  you  to  find  out 
whether  you  were  good  to  eat,"  said  Vachel, 
laughing.  "  He  wouldn't  begin  on  you  unless 
he  were  sure  you  were  carrion."  "Curious," 
said    I,    "isn't   it;   we   used   as   children   to   look 


106       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

at  pictures  of  bears  smelling  men  who  were 
shamming  dead  in  order  to  escape  being  eaten 
by  them.  In  children's  books,  the  bear  won't 
eat  carrion.  Out  here  in  the  Rockies  you 
can't  keep  them  out  of  the  garbage  cans  of  the 
camps  at  night." 

On  another  occasion,  however,  when  three 
bears  came  trundling  down  after  our  supper 
was  over,  I  approached  one  with  some  bread, 
which  he  very  gently  took  from  my  fingers, 
and  I  scratched  his  nose  and  put  myself  on 
speaking  terms. 

"Curious,"  said  I  to  Vachel,  "is  it  not? 
These  are  the  same  bears  which  used  to  figure 
so  largely  in  adventure  stories  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains.  It  follows  they  are  ready  to  be 
good  citizens  of  the  forest  if  treated  'good.' 

You'd  have  had  a  different  experience  had 
they  been  grizzlies,  we  were  told  later. 

Maybe.  But  St.  Seraphim  himself  did  not 
tackle  grizzlies. 


f 

*.-> 


VISITED  BY  BEARS  107 


So  we've  met  the  bear: 

The  bear  has  snuffed  at  us 

And  wondered  what  we  were. 

Humans  with  a  forest  smell  to  us, 

No   doubt   quite  game; 

Sleeping  out  too,  very  quietly. 

Good  to  eat  no  doubt, 

Dare]  one,  dare  a  poor  bear  take  a  bite? 

Would   they   mind? 

I've  bitten  most  of  the  animals  in  the  wood 

Except  them — 

In  my  time. 


XVII.  LINDSAY'S  STONE   COFFEE 


The  wind  blew  all  night  long,  a  wind  that 
seemed  to  be  cleaning  up  and  burnishing  all 
the  spaces  between  the  stars.  The  rock  wall 
against  which  I  leaned  my  back  kept  stealing 
away  the  warmth  from  my  blanket.  Vachel 
slept  off  the  level  on  the  ferns,  at  a  forty-five 
degree    tilt    downward.      We    both    looked    out 

108 


LINDSAY'S  STONE  COFFEE  »     109 

to  the  mountains  and  the  stars,   and   it  was  an 
epical  summer  night  on  the  Rockies. 

The  mountains  were  compact  and  black  and 
clear,  and  a  dim  light  behind  them  glorified 
each.  A  young  moon  arose  and  poised  her- 
self above  us,  and  only  slowly  and  very  unob- 
trusively crept  across  the  sky.  It  was  a  night 
of  persistent  gale  but  of  a  steadfast  starry 
universe.  It  seemed  to  call  for  rain,  but  there 
never  came  a  cloud,  only  the  metallic  inter- 
stellar spaces  grew  lustrous  and  more  lustrous, 
and  the  mountains  more  and  more  romantic. 
Our  eyes  were  religiously  and  adoringly  spell- 
bound. Our  hands — our  feet — that  is  a  dif- 
ferent tale. 

Their  hearts  were  pure, 
Their  hands  were  horribly  red, 

as  Balzac  said  of  two  young  ladies  of  France. 

Vachel,  who  had  tied  the  tassels  of  his  old 
steamer  rug  together  and  made  a  sleeping-bag, 
was  meditative  of  Peary  and  Shackleton  and 
their  companions,  and  though  he  had  procured 
an  extra  flannel  shirt  and  had  tied  himself  up 
in  all  he  possessed,  he  still  could  not  find  the 
temperature  at  which  corn  ripens  in  central 
Illinois.      We    heard    the    waters    of    the    creek 


no      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

pouring  down  below,  we  heard  movements 
among  the  trees,  and  the  idea  of  a  bear  coming 
to  us  was  not  unsuggested.  Vachel  picked  up 
his  steamer  rug  and  came  across  to  my  rock 
and  laid  him  down  nearer  to  me.  We  slept 
then  till  dawn,  slept  with  one  eye  open  and 
one  shut;  one  ear  alert,  the  other  muffled. 

The  lovely  light  of  the  east  flooded  upward 
and  over  us  from  Lake  St.  Mary,  bathing  our 
mountain-side  in  a  peach  blossom  glamour; 
small  birds  winged  it  through  the  wedge  of  air 
'twixt  mountain  and  mountain.  The  creek  poured 
more  loudly  into  our  consciousness,  and  the  sharp 
points  of  our  rocky  bed  jibbed  upward  towards 
our  bones.  Then  it  was  morning.  Then  it  was 
coffee  time. 

I  shall  never  forget  the  poet  as  he  looked  in 
the  dawn,  with  his  red  handkerchief  tied  over 
his  old  felt  hat  and  under  his  chin,  and  the 
concentration  of  his  gaze  as  he  plodded  about 
in  three  pairs  of  socks  and  half-laced  boots 
seeking  extra  twigs  to  make  that  fire  burn. 
He  looked  like  a  true  dwarf  or  old  man  of  the 
woods  from  a  page  of  a  fairy-book,  but  not 
really  visible  to  human  eyes. 


LINDSAY'S  STONE  COFFEE       in 

And  it  was  an  unpractical  fairy  who  expected 
damp  wood  and  large  wood  to  burn  as  easily 
as  dry  withered  pine.  It  sometimes  took  a 
long  while  to  set  our  pot  a-boilin'.  Once,  how- 
ever, that  had  been  achieved,  great  was  our 
reward.  We  had  our  coffee,  "Lindsay's  stone 
coffee,"  as  we  named  it,  better  than  any  other 
coffee  in  the  United  States. 

"Stephen,"  said  Vachel  quietly  to  me  one  day, 
"you  must  let  them  know  just  how  this  coffee 
is  made.  I'm  not  one  of  those  selfish  people 
who  keep  such  secrets  to  themselves.  The 
ladies  especially  will  like  to  have  our  secret." 

The  first  point  is  that  you  take  a  stone 
which  has  never  seen  either  sunset  or  sunrise, 
a  stone  lying  at  the  feet  of  trees  not  less  than 
ioo  feet  high.  It  must  have  lain  there  not 
less  than  4000  years  and  listened  to  the  music 
of  a  waterfall.  That  is  the  important  point. 
Any  decent  coffee  beans  ground  in  any  kind 
of  clean  grinder  will  do.  A  pot  that  has  seen 
more  than  one  continent  is  preferred. 

You  then  cut  a  square  piece  of  white  mos- 
quito net  sufficient  to  hold  the  coffee  and  the 
stone.     Tie    up    carefully   like    a    plum-pudding, 


ii2       TRAMPING  WITH   A   POET 

but  leave  seven  or  eight  inches  of  string 
attached  to  it  so  that  you  can  pull  the  coffee 
sack  up  and  down  in  the  pot  at  will.  Vachel 
in  this  matter  of  coffee  is  a  complete  immer- 
sionist.    The  coffee  must  go  right  under. 

It  is  prepared,  moreover,  in  silence  and 
without  fear  of  flame  and  smoke.  The  pot 
stands  on  a  funeral  pyre,  and  is  allowed  to 
lift  its  lid  several  times  before  a  hand  swathed 
up  in  a  towel  darts  in  to  rescue  it. 

We  pour  it  out  into  our  tin  cups.  It  is 
black,  it  is  good,  it  has  a  kick  like  a  mule;  it 
searches  the  vitals  and  chases  out  the  damps; 
it  comforts  the  spine  and  gives  tone  to  the 
heart.  And  the  poet,  silent  hitherto,  sits  hold- 
ing his  large  cup  before  him.  Then  he  takes 
a  sip  and  looks  at  me. 

"Thadd  touches  the  spadd,"  says  he  at  last 
in  a  deep  gastronomical  gestatory  voice  which 
seems  to  lend  expression  to  his  ears  and  shoul- 
ders. "Thadd  touches  the  spadd,"  says  he  in 
happy  relief. 

|p  |p  |p 


LINDSAY'S  STONE   COFFEE       113 


Coffee  shoud  be  made  with  love; 

That's  the  first  ingredient. 

It's  all  very  well  about  the  stone, 

Say  I,  but  it  needs  a  heart  as  well. 

The  coffee  knows  if  you  really  care, 

And  will  do  its  best  if  you  lend  it  encouragement. 

You  can  flatter  the  coffee  whilst  it  is  in  the  pots 
And  it  will  rise  to  your  persuasion. 

But   the   commonest  cause   of   coffee   being  just 

indifferent 

Is  your  indifference  towards  the  coffee. 


O    TH6     WORLD'S     END 


XVIII.  MAKING  MAPS 
OF  THE  WORLD 

After  an  era  of  drawing  maps  of  the  United 
States  my  companion  took  to  drawing  maps  of 
the  world,  supporting  them  by  mermaids  and 
making  them  fly  by  north-westerly  and  north- 
easterly angels,  and  he  wrote  original  couplets 
and  hid  them  in  hollow  trees  and  under  stones. 
As  Shelley  made  paper  boats  in  the  Bay  of 
Naples  he  made  maps  and  hid  them — his  pet 
hobby  for  a  number  of  days. 

One  verse  asked  Atlas  if  he  did  not  find  the 
world  heavier  since  the  Treaty  of  Versailles. 

"I  hope  you  made  a  copy  of  it  before  hiding 
it,"  said  I. 

"Oh,  no;  stray  leaves  of  poetry,  rewards  for 
seekers,"  said  he.  Celebrated  mountaineers  have 
been  putting  copper  boxes  with  their  signature* 

114 


MAKING  MAPS  115 

on  the  tops  of  the  mountains  this  year;  Vachel 
has  been  leaving  original  poems  in  the  valleys. 

We  set  off  from  Sun  Mountain  for  the  high 
walls  of  the  Canadian  line.  Vachel  was  in  no 
passion  for  climbing,  and  confessed  that  if  he 
were  a  woman,  he  would,  at  this  point  in  our 
adventure,  "lie  down  on  the  floor  and  scream." 
So  our  progress  was  slow  and  punctuated  by 
long  waits.  We  went  through  tree  thickets 
and  breast-high  flowers  and  through  tearing 
thorns,  and  we  came  to  many  red-rock  promon- 
tories. Rocks  grew  up  out  of  the  jungle  and 
topped  the  highest  trees,  and  we  climbed  them 
and  looked  out  from  their  smooth,  wind-swept 
summits  and  listened  to  the  bears,  and  Vachel, 
with  paper  and  pencil,  drew  maps  and  put 
Czecho-Slovakia  in  the  scheme  of  things,  and 
asked  the  God  who  made  the  world  where 
Turkestan   might  be. 

At  length,  at  noon,  we  came  unto  a  mighty 
cliff,  an  end  of  the  world,  rosy  red  and  flamingly 
joyful,  but  very  final.  The  poet  was  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  behind  me,  and  I  watched  him  patiently 
grubbing  his  way  through  the  exuberant  green, 
trackless   jungle,    hit    in    the    face   by    branches* 


n6      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

choked  up  to  the  fork  of  his  legs  by  the  weeds. 
And  when  he  came  to  the  end  of  the  world  he 
asked  no  questions  but  just  sat  down  and  began 
drawing  a  map.  "Where,"  asked  he,  "is  Seven 
Rivers  Land  and  the  Desert  of  Pamir?" 

I  left  him  sitting  down  below  and  began 
climbing  the  giddy  cliff  with  a  tin  can  in  my 
hand.  For  growing  like  wall-flowers  on  the 
rocks  above  were  dwarf  raspberry  bushes  all 
hung  with  tiny  rosy  lights — and  these  were 
fruits.  I  got  up  to  them  and  standing  on  half- 
inch  ledges  and  holding  to  twigs  and  weeds  I 
picked  a  cupful  of  the  hot  berries  all  half-cooked 
by  the  sun's  rays.  And  when  I  got  down  again  we 
had  a  wonderful  repast  of  raspberries  and  sugar. 

When  we  resumed  tramping  we  crossed  a 
crag-strewn  valley,  which  was  very  rough  on 
our  boots.  My  boots  were  cracking;  Lindsay's 
were  very  floral.  His  held  out  a  little  while 
longer,  but  mine  died  that  day.  As  we  each 
carried  two  pairs  of  boots  we  were  prepared  for 
the  emergency. 

Mine  had  been  a  stout  pair  of  pre-war  boots 
(Americans  please  read  "shoes").  I  used  them 
first  in  North  Norway  and  Russia.  I  tramped 
in  them   in    France.      They   were    repaired   first 


MAKING  MAPS  117 

by  a  Russian  at  Kislovodsk  in  the  Caucasus; 
repaired  for  the  second  time  in  Georgia  by  a 
negro  cobbler.  For  I  did  Sherman's  march 
and  walked  from  Atlanta  to  the  serf  in  them  in 
19 19.  And  they  were  repaired  for  the  last 
time  by  a  Frenchman  in  Hazebrouck  last  year. 
I  had  tramped  in  them  over  the  battlefields  of 
Gallipoli,  and  had  worn  them  when  the  weather 
was  bad  in  Constantinople,  Belgrade,  Budapest, 
Vienna,  Warsaw,  and  almost  every  other  capital 
of  Europe. 

"We  must  burn  them,"  said  Vachel,  "and 
have  a  special  ceremony.  These  are  no 
ordinary  shoes  (Englishmen  please  read  'boots') 
to  be  abandoned  in  the  wilds  without  the  meed 
of  some  melodious  tear."  So  we  burned  one 
on  a  high  flaming  fire  with  young  pine-shoots 
for  incense,  and  the  other  we  threw  into  a 
rushing  mountain  torrent,  and  bade  it  continue 
its  world  journey  to  the  world's  end. 

We  lay  stretched  on  our  blankets  by  the  pine 
fire  that  night  and  talked  of  the  world.  We 
arrived  at  some  ideas.  "You  are  not  drawing 
the  map  merely  as  part  of  a  geography  lesson," 
said  I.     "You  are  drawing  the  poetry  of  it." 


n8       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

A  poetical  map  of  the  world  has  never  yet 
been  drawn.  "It  should  have  ships  on  its 
oceans  and  lighthouses  on  its  rocks  and  mer- 
maids under  it,  and  stars  over  it,"  said  Vachel. 
"Imagine  how  Blake  would  have  drawn  it." 

First,  you  put  in  the  North  and  South  Poles, 
symbols  of  man's  love  of  the  inaccessible  and 
the  paradox  of  his  striving  life;  then  Cape 
Horn,  stormiest  point  in  the  world,  cape  of 
innumerable  wrecks,  of  the  innumerable  ad- 
ventures of  daring  sailors.  Then  put  in  the 
Panama  Canal,  symbol  of  utilitarianism  and  our 
modern  life.  Draw  in  the  Bering  Strait,  which 
is  the  prehistoric  link  of  the  Old  World  and 
the  New,  and  then  the  Rocky  Mountains, 
which   the   red  men   climbed. 

Then  draw  in  a  dotted  line  the  keel  track  of 
Columbus  over  the  ocean  and  put  an  eye  upon 
a  peak  in  the  Darien  looking  downward  and 
outward  to  the  great  Pacific.  Draw  the  Mason 
and  Dixon  line.  Draw  54°  40' — the  "fifty-four 
forty  or  fight"  line.  Then  for  the  old  world, 
make  the  coast-line  of  China  and  then  mark 
the  Chinese  Wall  built  to  keep  out  the  Huns, 
then  draw  the  caravans  of  the  hordes,  and  may 
arrows    fly    over    the    desert    of    Asia,    spitting 


MAKING   MAPS  119 

against  Bokhara  and  Samarkand,  spitting  against 
the  empire  of  Darius,  spitting  against  the 
Scythians,  the  Slavs,  stampeding  the  Goths  and 
the  North  Men  and  ruining  Rome  and  starting 
the  modern  world! 

You  must  put  in  Athens  the  birthplace  of 
the  ideal,  and  Marathon  and  then  Rome,  the 
birthplace  of  materialism,  the  capital  of  capitals, 
seat  of  the  Caesars.  And  then  St.  Helena, 
symbol  of  the  doom  of  would-be  Caesars. 

Mark  in  the  mysterious  Nile,  and  the  place 
where  the  Sphinx  looks  out  from  the  sand. 
Mark  Bethlehem  and  then  Jerusalem 

Thus  we  schemed  and  mused  and  made 
many  maps  in  fancy,  and  we  took  to  ourselves 
just  before  the  stars  said  good-night  the  title 
Geo.   Ast. — geographical   astrologers. 

"I  dare  you  to  register  as  such,"  said  Vachel, 
"when  we  get  out  of  all  this  and  reach  a  hotel 
at  last." 


A 


i2o      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 


Poor  old  world,  you're  a  playground. 

And  we  are  the  children  who  romp  in  you  now. 

Those  maps  of  you  are  wrong 

Which  show  trade  winds 

Instead  of  winds  of  inspiration, 

Where  names  of  business-places  are  in  bold  black 

print 
And  railway  lines  are  ruled, 
And  capitals  are  marked  with  blots 
And  other  places  are  invisible. 


XIX.  A  MOUNTAIN 
POINT  OF  VIEW 


"WiTE  man,  you's  skeerln'  me  to  death,"  cries 
Vachel  playfully  from  behind  me  as  we  get 
out  of  forests  and  up  among  the  naked  rocks. 
"Wite  man,  you's  skeerin'  me  to  death,"  or 
again,  "You  might  as  well  kill  a  man  as  scare 
him  to  death." 

"This     is     no     place     to     bring     ladies,"     I 
ventured. 

121 


122      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

"And  no  place  to  bring  a  poet,  either,"  says 
Vachel.  "Look  here,  Stephen,  I  make  one  rule. 
I'll  only  be  scared  out  of  my  wits  once  a  day." 

The  poet  riveted  his  eyes  on  me,  and  I 
was  a  curious  sight,  being  torn  to  tatters  from 
head  to  foot.  I  had  been  mending  my  trousers 
with  the  stuff  of  my  vest  and  the  lining  of  my 
coat.  "Stephen,"  cries  Vachel,  "when  I  get  tired 
of  looking  at  the  scenery  I  look  at  your  pants." 
And  I  employed  much  time  when  we  rested  sew- 
ing up  the  triangles  and  flaps  on  my  knees  with 
white  thread  drawn  from  our  mosquito  netting. 

We  saw  now  the  wonderful  cathedral-shaped 
mountain  behind  us,  blue  and  white  and  scarred 
and  crumpled.  It  lifted  its  clerestory  with 
grandiosity  up  into  the  colder  and  rarer  air. 
Its  rivelled  snow  hung  in  great  white  copes; 
its  earthquake  rents  and  chasms  yawned,  and 
its  dreadful  steeps,  up  which  no  man  ever 
climbed,  drew  sternly  and  austerely  up  to 
summits  and  spires  and  towers.  Grandiose 
mountain!  And  what  little  flies,  what  micro- 
scopical insects  we  were  upon  it! 

We  came  to  the  top  of  the  Valley  of  Boulder 
Creek,    stretching   away   from   the   heart   of   the 


A  MOUNTAIN  POINT  OF  VIEW  123 

Rockies  to  the  tents  of  the  Indians  and  the 
indeterminate  plains,  one  of  the  grandest  of 
views  to  my  companion,  who  loves  the  prairie 
like  the  prairie  child,  an  aperc,u  of  America 
seen  from  the  mountains.  "That  is  what  we 
want  to  get,"  said  Vachel,  "a  Rocky  Mountain 
point  of  view  on  all  things  American.  That  is 
the  true  meaning  of  calling  it  a  national  park." 

"Not  only  that,  but  a  world-point-of-view 
can  be  found,"  said  I.  "That  is  why  it  was 
called  Going-to-the-Sun  Mountain  —  the  sun 
sees  everything." 

We  turned,  however,  into  a  wild  and  obscure 
region  and  blundered  and  staggered  among 
a  miscellany  of  all  kinds  of  boulders.  Blue 
lakelets  and  pools  lay  at  the  foot  of  djinns  of 
snow,  and  there  were  dreadful  iceberg-like 
reflections  in  the  weird  blueness  of  the  water. 
We  camped  on  a  plateau,  or  rather  in  a  wide, 
high  trough  surrounded  by  mountain-sides,  and 
we  made  a  fire  of  old  resinous  roots  and  stumps 
of  dead,  dwarfed  trees.  There  were  shallow 
lakes  in  sight,  but  the  way  to  them  was  over 
undulating,  quaking  moss.  Mists  encircled  us 
before  nightfall  and  made  our  fire  ghostly. 
We   lay   all  night   in   a   great   stillness,    and  the 


124      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

fire  glowered  and  smouldered  and  the  mist 
uneasily  crept  into  rain  with  a  breeze  or  settled 
again  into  mist  with  the  calm.  Next  day  was 
a  cold  and  chilling  morning  like  November  in 
England,  and  we  heaped  higher  the  fire  with 
wood  and  slept  till  wind  and  sun  conquered 
cloud  and  damp.     And  that  was  nearly  noon. 

"Onward,"  cried  Vachel,  "upward,  higher, 
purer,  better,  nobler,  sweeter,  stronger" — which 
was  his  favourite  war-cry  at  the  time,  and 
amid  stark  upper-mountain  scenery  we  made 
a  glorious  afternoon  march  to  a  place  of  great 
height.  At  length,  on  what  seemed  a  terrific- 
ally high  pedestal  of  black  rock,  we  gleaned 
a  coffee-pot  full  of  fresh  snow  and  proposed 
to  make  tea.  And  I  upset  the  evaporated 
milk,  but  licked  it  up  off  the  rocks  with  the 
flat  of  my  tongue.  This  Vachel  was  too  proud 
to  do,  so  I  have  surmised  that  his  progenitors 
were  Lowland  Scottish  gentlemen  farmers,  but 
mine  were  Border  cattle  thieves  and  "land 
loupers." 

We  had  supper  that  evening  in  a  great, 
open  mountain  space,  with  glaciers  as  large 
as  cities  brooding  and  impending  over  abysses, 


A  MOUNTAIN  POINT  OF  VIEW  125 

and  we  looked  downward  to  dark  and  gloomy 
rising  forests  gone  tired  on  their  way  up  towards 
us,  and  we  looked  upwards  to  the  grandeur  of 
snow-covered  crags  and  tumultuous,  heaven- 
climbing  waves  of  rock.  Vachel  fried  the  beans 
to  an  accompaniment  of  rhythmical  remarks. 
Poetry  possessed  us  both.  All  about  us  was 
in  grand,  romantic,  heroic  strain.  Vachel  re- 
marked how  the  forests  were  like  harps  with 
long  harp  strings,  and  the  strings  were  the 
lines  which  mountain  stones  and  avalanches 
had  furrowed  there  for  ages.  The  carpet  on 
which  we  lay  was  of  yellow  vetches  and  dark- 
blue  gentians,  with  lichened  stones  all  inter- 
spersed. Heaven  itself  was  not  flat-roofed 
above  us,  but  raised  at  the  zenith,  a  blue  vault 
above  us,  like  the  dome  of  a  world-temple. 
And  the  fire  burned  a  black  patch  on  the  green 
and  puffed  and  flamed  symbolically  as  if  we  were 
children  of  the  Old  Testament  sacrificing  there 
to  our  God. 


126      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 


Two  stars  arose  above  the  mountain's  head, 
Two  stars  looked  down  upon  the  world  in  bed; 
Looked  through  the  window-panes  and  saw  the 

world  at  home, 
From  Babylon  to  Tyre,  and  Rome  to  Rome. 
What  if  the  stars,  lifting  their  tiny  lamps, 
Were  but  like  us,  a  couple  of  old  tramps ? 
Heaven's   tramps   the  stars,   blazing   their  trails 

they  go, 
From  mountain-top  to  mountain-top  and  snow  to 

snow. 


'    I     HAD      R^iTHEfc.    BE      A      PE,  ACOCK,    THAN       A 
HOC    '  SAID       THE     PEACOCK. 


XX.    BY    THE    CAMP    FIRE 


Many  years  ago  one  of  the  Springfield  news- 
papers offered  a  prize  to  the  reader  who  should 
send  in  the  best  answer  to  the  question :  What 
would  you  do  with  a  million  dollars?  Young 
Vachel  sent  in  an  answer.  His  was:  "I  would 
change  them  to  dimes  and  have  them  thrown 
into  the  State  House  yard  and  any  one  who 
wanted  them  could  come  and  take  as  much  as 
he  liked."  The  answer  was  printed  in  the 
paper  with  a  lot  of  others  and  gave  consider- 
able offence.  The  telephone  was  kept  busy 
that  morning  by  those  who  thought  fit  to  tell 
his  father  and  mother  that  they  ought  to  look 
after  him  better  and  not  let  him  make  a  fool  of 
himself. 

127 


128       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

"I  did  not  get  the  prize,"  said  Vachel  sadly. 
"The  editor  probably  thought  that  with  a 
million  dollars  one  could  do  just  a  million 
dollars'  worth  of  good.  He  thinks,  as  does 
my  dearest  friend,  that  you  can  employ  people 
to  do  good  at  a  salary,  and  the  one  who  got 
the  prize  probably  allotted  ten  thousand  dollars 
to  this  charity  and  ten  thousand  dollars  to  that 
and  endowed  this  thing  and  endowed  that  and 
did  not  even  dare  to  buy  himself  an  ice-cream 
soda.  They've  got  such  a  high  idea  of  money 
that  it's  almost  an  attribute  of  God  himself. 
Now,  I  rank  money  low.  I'm  right  up  against 
the  weekly  magazine  advertisement  point  of 
view — 'Doing  good  is  only  possible  when 
you've  a  lot  of  money.  Get  money!  Oh,  get 
money  first  somehow,  then  you  can  do  good. 
Wear  good  clothes  and  then  you'll  be  in  the 
way  of  doing  good.' 


»    5> 


We  had  made  our  camp  under  a  great  over- 
hanging rock  beside  rushing  cataracts.  The 
huge  vague  scenery  about  us  was  made  more 
immense  by  a  cloud  screen  which  prevented 
one  knowing  exactly  how  high  the  mountains 
were,  and  we  looked  outward  at  a  vastitude  of 


BY   THE   CAMP   FIRE  129 

scarred  precipitous  cliffs.  Our  fire  warmed  the 
rock  against  which  we  had  laid  our  blankets, 
and  we  had  found  a  delightfully  cosy  place  in 
which  to  be  at  home.  Night  came  down  upon 
us,  but  we  lay  long  in  the  flamelight  and 
talked. 

"I  don't  think,"  said  Vachel,  "that  this 
money  incentive  is  really  a  strong  one  or  leads 
far.  That  is  where  I  part  company  with  the 
radicals  of  this  country.  They  have  all  founded 
their  faith  on  the  economic  theory  of  history. 
I'd  like  to  write  for  them  a  'romantic  theory' 
of  history.  I  believe  in  the  romantic  theory; 
I  do  NOT  believe  in  the  economic  theory." 

"All  right,  dear  Vachel,"  said  I  constrainedly. 
"There  are  only  you  and  I  present,  and  God. 
Say  it  more  quietly." 

"Vanity  and  ambition  have  always  been 
stronger  motives  than  the  desire  of  gain.  And 
that  is  good.  I  put  vanity  a  whole  lot  higher 
than  greed.  In  a  country  of  hogs  the  peacock 
is  a  praiseworthy  bird." 

"You  say  that  because  you  are  a  peacock." 

"I   KNOW  IT.      I   AM  A   PEACOCK.      I   AM  NOT 

A  Hog." 

"All   right,   Vachel.     Now,   if   money  is  not 


130      TRAMPING  WITH  A   POET 

so  strong  an  incentive  how  do  you  account 
for  the  fact  that  in  your  own  beautiful  State 
of  Illinois  Governor  Small  has  been  under  arrest 
for  appropriation  of  funds,  and  at  Chicago 
members  of  one  of  the  greatest  baseball  teams  in 
America  are  under  trial  for  selling  championship 
games  to  the  other  side?" 

"That's  the  influence  of  the  magazine 
advertisement — praise  of  dollars  and  the  im- 
plication that  everything  in  the  world  has  a 
commercial  value  or  it  has  no  value.  And 
there  are  no  other  honours  but  money  honours." 

It  was  evidently  more  that  a  mere  opinion  of 
my  companion.  It  was  a  creed.  He  passion- 
ately belived  what  he  said.  And  thus  it  was 
that  I  discovered  in  Glacier  wilderness  a  very 
rare  bird,  the  American  black  swan,  and  that 
in  the  poet  of  Springfield  whom  the  village  in 
its  ignorance  was  once  scandalised  about. 

Vachel  told  me  how  he  acted  on  his  creed — 
What  is  greater  than  the  power  of  money? 
why,  contempt  of  money — and  set  off  without 
a  dime  to  see  America  and  live,  and  how  the 
good  God  took  care  of  him  until  he  got  to 
California.     "In  that  way  I  learned  to  respect 


BY   THE   CAMP   FIRE  131 

myself  and  to  respect  my  fellow-man,"  said  he. 
"I  learned  what  a  lot  of  good  poor  men  and 
women  there  are  in  America.  And  I  have 
nothing  to  complain  of  individuals  as  such.  I 
could  always  rely  on  brotherliness.  But  it  was 
different  with  institutions,  when  I  went  to 
people  who  were  not  themselves  but  hirelings, 
people  hired  to  do  good.  Don't  I  know  the 
minions  of  charity?  What  are  the  places  where 
as  a  tramp  I've  had  the  stingiest  treatment  in 
the  world?  Why,  in  institutions  from  the  paid 
organisers  of  charity."     And  he  told  of  how  he 

once  went  to  a  Y  at  H ,  Mo.,  and  the  fight 

he  had  to  get  mere  soap  and  towel  and  a  bath. 

"By  Gosh,  they  weren't  going  to  give  it  to 
me.  I  said  'I've  been  a  Y.M.C.A.  worker 
myself  in  New  York  for  years  and  I  know  that 
soap  and  towel  can  be  had.  I  know  the  whole 
workings  of  the  organisation  and  I'll  have  soap 
and  towel  from  you  if  I  have  to  bring  the  roof 
down.  I'll  go  to  the  editors  of  the  newspapers. 
I'll  go   to   the   leading  ministers  and  preachers 

of  H and  I'll  hold  you  up  to  shame  to  the 

town.  I'll  whale  you.'  And  I  got  soap  and 
towel  and  they  said,  'take  him  down,'  and  I 
got  a  bath,   though  I  used  as  much   energy  to 


132       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

get  it  from  them  as  would  have  served  to  do 
three  days'  hard  work.  Now  I  know  that  if  1 
had  gone  into  any  working  man's  home  in  town 
and  asked  for  it,  or  even  into  a  hotel  I'd  have 
got  soap  and  towel  without  demur. 

"Yet  my  best  friend  says,  'Vachel,  you're 
morbid  on  the  subject  of  money.'  I  said  to 
him  'Well,  there's  a  lot  in  the  New  Testament 
about  it.     Look  it  up !'  " 


The  gopher-rats  are  sitting  on  their  tails 

Watching  us  all  around,  listening  to  us. 

What  is  it  these  queer  birds  are  getting  excited  about 

By  their  camp-fire? 

Money,  is  it?    Money's  no  good  to  the  gophers, 

Leave  us  a  crumb  or  two. 

Don't  forget  a  spot  of  that  fried  hash : 

Squeak! 


* 


c^ 


//. 


o 


V 


* 


<*> 


u/t  CLirMSfcO  \jy  \V1TH  THE  TRIES 
t>UT  CATVfc  DOUN  V_/lTHTHt  VAT  IAS 


XXI.  DOWN  CATARACT  MOUNTAIN 


Vachel  told  me  once,  to  save  his  self-respect, 
he  took  a  job  in  Chicago  in  a  department  store 
at  seven  dollars  a  week,  and  was  employed  in 
the  wholesale  toy  department;  a  whole  block 
of  toys,  where  was  to  be  found  every  imagin- 
able plaything  for  young  and  old,  from  dolls  as 
large  as  three-year-old  children  to  family  por- 
trait albums  that,  having  a  musical  box  in  their 
binding,  played  uThe  Old  Folks  at  Home" 
and     various     hymn-tunes     when     you     opened 

133 


134      TRAMPING  WITH  A   POET 

them.  He  told  how  a  lad  called  Timmins 
wound  up  all  the  albums  he  could  lay  his 
hands  on,  and  laid  them  open  and  went  away 
to  another  part  of  the  building,  and  of  the  wild 
din  that  ensued. 

Timmins  was  "fired." 

He  told  how  he  lived  amid  acres  of  dolls 
and  how,  to  satisfy  the  fire  insurance  inspectors, 
a  three-foot  clearance  was  made  between  the 
top  of  the  toy  heaps  and  the  roof,  and  how  all 
one  night  they  did  overtime  slamming  down 
rows  and  sections  of  dolls  and  toys  on  to  wait- 
ing trucks,  and  they  were  rushed  to  another 
place.  Then  the  inspectors  came  and  passed 
the  building.  And  when  they  were  gone  the 
Ghetto  came  and  bought  the  "bum  dolls"  from 
the  "smash  dump,"  and  Vachel  and  the  rest 
were  soon  building  toys  up  to  the  roof  once 
more. 

"But  none  of  my  friends  liked  my  earning  my 
living  in  this  way.  They'd  prefer  to  see  me  in 
a  bank  or  an  insurance  office.  You  see,  I  could 
not  paint  a  picture  that  would  keep  me.  I 
would  not  enter  commercial  art — I  mean  ad- 
vertisement  drawing.      My  poems   did  not   sell, 


DOWN  CATARACT  MOUNTAIN  135 

and  people  thought  I  had  spent  long  enough 
studying  and  loafing,  and  that  I  ought  to  begin 
to  earn  a  decent  living.  So  I  went  into  the 
Chicago  Department  Store.  They  did  not  like 
that.  So  I  took  to  the  road  again.  Curiously 
enough,  Francis  Hackett  took  a  job  in  that 
same  store  before  his  star  arose." 

Vachel  and  I  had  a  great  pow-wow  by  night 
and  morning  fire,  and  I  cannot  set  down  half 
here  in  these  (I  hope)  dignified  paragraphs. 
But  all  the  while  we  sat  and  talked,  the  prairie 
rats  sat  about  us  on  their  tails  and  haunches, 
and  stared  curiously  with  their  forepaws  on 
their  chests  like  good  masons  in  their  rituals. 
They  smelt  the  beans,  they  smelt  the  cheese, 
they  smelt  the  corn  beef  hash;  they  knew  they 
were  protected  by  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment and  they  had  never  seen  a  dog  or  a 
cat.      Curiously   friendly  little   companions! 

After  the  cloudy  night  there  was  at  serene 
morning.  When  the  veils  were  lifted  off  the 
mountains  we  knew  them  for  just  whal  they 
were.  They  did  not  go  all  the  way  to  the  sky 
after  all. 

We  went  down  Cataract  Mountain  the  came 
way  as  the  water,  down  to  flower-spread  meads 


136      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

and  spacious  fir-woods  and  widening  streams. 
Up  above  us  the  water  chariots  came  racing 
behind  white  horses  four  abreast,  five  abreast, 
natural  fountains  played  on  every  hand,  and 
high  as  heaven  itself  tiny  cataracts  tipped  over 
and  fell  downwards  into  veils,  into  smoke,  into 
nothingness.  Characteristic  of  the  place  were 
the  great  volumes  of  water  which  plunged 
under  hollow  snow-crusts  to  emerge  forty  feet 
lower  down  after  a  momentary  vigil  in  the  snow. 
This  is  the  valley  of  Cataract  Creek,  bounded 
by  lofty  and  perhaps  impassable  rocks,  but  in 
itself  a  garden  to  the  last  patch  of  mould  and 
the  last  bright  flower. 

We  made  our  way  along  Haystack  Butte  toward 
Mount  Grinnell,  which,  like  a  mighty  fortress, 
stood  facing  us  in  the  line  of  our  tramp.  Was 
it  the  beauty  of  the  garden  or  was  it  the  lim- 
pidity of  the  streams  that  set  us  talking  of 
England?  It  is  a  peculiarly  happy  subject  with 
the  poet,  who,  with  all  his  Americanism,  has 
a  true  reverence  for  the  fountain  of  English. 
This  July,  just  before  setting  out  for  the 
Rockies,  he  received  an  invitation  from  Robert 
Bridges,  the  British  poet  laureate,  to  become  a 


DOWN  CATARACT  MOUNTAIN   137 

member  of  the  "Society  for  Pure  English." 
To  that  extent  has  Oxford  at  least  recognised 
that  Vachel  Lindsay  is  no  mere  performer  or 
charlatan  and  not  the  "jazz-poet."  To  some 
people  in  England  Vachel  came  as  a  prophet, 
and  his  courtly  and,  indeed,  stately  manners, 
the  profound  obeisance  which  he  made  with 
his  hat  before  entering  a  church  or  a  school  or 
a  house,  revealed  him  as  an  American  of  the 
Washingtonian  cast. 

Some  would-be  cynical,  smart  undergraduate 
was  showing  Vachel  King's  College  Chapel 
at  Cambridge,  and  said  to  him:  "The  last 
American  we  showed  round  when  we  asked 
him  what  he  thought  of  it,  said,  'Some  God- 
box.'  And  he  seemed  to  think  that  very 
amusing,  and  could  not  understand  Lindsay's 
silence  on  the  point. 

"He  did  not  know  for  how  many  years  I 
had  lectured  on  the  Gothic  and  what  it  meant 
to  me,"  said  Vachel. 

Naturally,  I  chaffed  my  companion  not  a  little 
on  his  belonging  to  the  S.P.E.,  and  called 
him  to  order  whenever  the  arduousness  of  our 
campaign  prompted  him  to  break  across  the 
pure    classic    of    Shakespeare's    tongue,    and    I 


138       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

made  him  take  note  of  many  expressions,  such 
as  "being  wished  on,"  and  "handing  a  man 
the  canned  goods,"  which  I  bade  him  chase 
from  America  into  the  sea. 

"I  should  only  be  too  glad,  Stephen,"  said 
he,  "if  I  could  get  rid  of  'motivate'  and  a 
man's  'implications'  and  'the  last  analysis' 
and  'the  twilight  zone'  and  'canned  metaphor' 
and  the  dollar  adjectives,  a  'ten-million-dollar 
building'  and  a  'million-dollar  bride.'  " 


* 


Oxford    has    asked    Chicago 
To  lend  its  purifying  aid 
To  the  King's  English. 
O  Oxford/  O  Bridges! 


+ 


XXII.   "  GO  WEST,   YOUNG  MAN 


II 


"Now,     Horace     Greeley "      said     Vachel, 

opening   his    "morning   strafe"    of   political   con- 
versation. 

"Who  the was  he?" 

"You  don"t  know?  Why,  you'll  be  saying 
you  don't  know  Shakespeare  next.  That's  as  if 
J.  C.  Squire  had  never  heard  of  Edwin  Booth." 

"Well,  who  was  he?" 

"  He  edited  the  Tribune  throughout  the 
Civil  War.  " 

139 


140       TRAMPING  WITH  A   POET 

"That  all?" 

"  He  said,  'The  way  to  resume  is  to  resume.'  " 

"That  all?" 

"  He  said,  'Go  West,  young  man,  and  grow 
up  with  the  country,'  and  printed  it  at  the  head 
of  his  newspaper  every  day." 

"  Oh !    Did  you  ever  hear  of  Mudford?  " 

"No." 

"  What,  never  heard  of  Mudford,  the  famous 
editor  of  the  Standard?  " 

"  No.  " 

"  Ever  heard  of  Nicol  Dunn?  " 

"  No." 

"  He  edited  the  Morning  Post  in  its  better 
days.     Ever  heard  of  Frederick  Greenwood?' 

"  No." 

"  Never  heard  of  Frederick  Greenwood? 
Why,  he  was  the  greatest  journalist  England 
ever  produced.  He  inspired  Disraeli  with  the 
idea  of  buying  the  Suez  Canal.  If  we  don't 
know  about  your  journalists,  I  see  you  don't 
know  about  ours." 

The  battery  was  silenced. 

We    walked    through    five    miles    of    rotten-ripe 
red  raspberries  and  got  thorns  in  our  half-naked 


"GO    WEST,    YOUNG    MAN"     141 

knees  and  carmined  our  fingers  with  raspberry 
juice,  and  we  kept  spitting  out  unpalatable  fruits 
and  making  uncomplimentary  remarks,  '/hen 
we  got  to  open  pine  woods  and  freed  our  feet 
of  the  tangles,  and  Vachel  began  to  sing  softly 
to  himself  a  children's  processional  hymn: 

We  are  the  Magi, 

Children    though    we    are. 

We  are  the  wise  men, 
Following  the  star. 

11  There  are  only  two  of  us."  I  ventured. 
11  Where   do   you   think   the   third  king  has   got 

to?" 

11  That's  King  Christopher,"  said  Vachel, 
sadly.  "  That's  our  'other  wise  man.'  He 
is  with  us,  but  he's  invisible.  He  is  sitting  in 
Greeley  Square  or  Vesey  Street,  and  it  was 
thinking  of  him  that  really  started  me  on 
Horace  Greeley.  " 

"  How  do  you  mean?  " 

"Well,  he  said  to  all  the  young  Magi,  'quit 
seeking  a  star  in  the  East,  Go  West  and  grow 
up  with  the  country.  Get  into  America;  find 
your  spiritual  roots.'  " 

"  You  want  to  persuade  every  one  to  cross 
the  Appalachians?" 


142       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

"Yes,"  said  Vachel  dreamily.  "  So  I 
brought  him  along  invisibly.  He  is  our  in- 
visible playmate."  And  he  resumed  his 
children's  hymn. 

"  You're  a  good  bit  like  Mark  Twain  and 
Rudyard  Kipling,"  said  Vachel  to  me  at  last, 
"  You've  a  wonderful  geographical  background. 
You  ought  to  read  the  life  of  Mark  Twain. 
Very  interesting.  He  was  made  by  his  life  in 
Nevada.  His  life  in  the  silver  mining  camps 
and  his  knowledge  of  the  West  and  the  South 
made  him.  Read  Roughing  It.  It's  a  great 
book.  Then  Kipling  with  a  boyhood  in  India 
and  a  maturity  in  America  owes  much  to  his 
knowing  both  West  and  East.  What's  the 
matter  with  young  men  to-day  is  a  disinclina- 
tion to  get  their  feet  dirty.  You're  the  only 
man  in  England  or  America  I've  been  able  to 
persuade  to  go  on  a  tramp  with  me.     When  I 

proposed    it   to    M ,    the    English    poet,    he 

seemed  to  turn  pale.  "  That's  all  behind 
me,"  he  said,  "  though  I  don't  know  what  he 
meant." 

We  came  within  sight  of  the  shore  of  Lake 
Josephine.      "  Shall  we   ask   our   invisible   com- 


"  GO  WEST,  YOUNG  MAN  "       143 

panion  if  he'd  like  to  come  in  for  a  swim  with 
us?  "  said  I. 

11  Why,  that  would  be  fine." 

So  we  broke  through  to  the  green  and  silver 
lake  and,  putting  our  tender  feet  on  the  sharp 
stones  and  water-covered  boulders,  waded  out 
to  swimming  depth  and  we  made  a  great  splash 
with  Napoleon's  beautiful  bride.  And  when 
we  came  we  vagabondised  on  the  shore  for 
the  rest  of  the  day — the  three  of  us — lying 
stretched  out  beside  a  mounting  red  blaze  of 
rain-washed  wood. 

The  beach  was  all  of  little  mauve  stones 
which  we  raked  into  couches.  And  there  we 
lay  munching  hot  pea-nuts  and  rebuilding  the 
world  on  a  foundation  of  the  American  Wild 
West.  Vachel  drew  some  more  world-maps 
and  adopted  our  invisible  playmate  as  a  member 
of  the  society  of  "  astrological  geographers, " 
and  we  took  for  our  emblem  and  device  the 
map  of  the  two  hemispheres  with  the  motto, 
"  The  World  is  My  Parish." 

What  a  serene  evening  it  was  by  the  side  of 
fair  Josephine!  A  half  moon  rose  over  us  at 
nightfall  and  marsh  hens  sped  through  the  air 
in   volleying   groups   of   wings.      The   stars    and 


144       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

the  moon  threw  a  silver  radiance  on  the  line 
of  the  mountain-tops  and  on  the  forests  and  on 
the  dimples  and  lines  and  circles  of  the  lake. 
We  fell  asleep  and  were  warm  and  at  peace. 
We  only  waked  at  four  in  the  morning  and 
then  bathed  before  sunrise  and  mingled  our 
bodies  with  the  perfect  reflections  of  green 
and  grey  and  brown  and  snowy  mountain- 
sides. 

The  sun  arising  grew  upon  us  and  chased 
wraith-like  mists  across  the  waters,  and  our 
fire,  hotter  than  the  sun,  blazed  on  the  mauve 
stones  and  baked  us  and  dried  us  when  we 
came  out  to  it,  and  gave  us  our  coffee  and  gave 
us  all  we  needed  till  old  Sol  was  radiant  o'er 
the  scene. 


|>  Jp  \g> 


"  GO  WEST,  YOUNG  MAN  H       145 


We  know  about  Josephine 
What  Napoleon  did  not  know. 
He  was  too  preoccupied  sacking  cities 
To  love  the  beautiful  altogether, 
Killing  men,   counting  cannon,  putting  unneeded 
Crowns  upon  his  brothers'  heads. 
He  didn't  know  much  about  her, 
O  no! 

He  said  there  were  no  more  Alps, 
No  more  Pyrenees. 

He    never    said    there    were    no    more    Rocky 
Mountains. 


/  I  \ 


TH6    CHMSTIAI1    BECOAeS     SUIV» 
WOKSHIPPfP,   ALSO 


XXIII.   THE   SUN-WORSHIPPER 

"  I  drink  to  America  as  she  was  before  1492," 
said  Vachel,  lifting  high  his  coffee  cup. 

"  I  drink  to  her  as  she  was  before  the  Red 
Man  came." 

"  And  I  drink  to  her  as  she  was  before  the 
Mound-builders  came " 

And  I  drink  to  her  as  she  was  in  the  days 
of  the  mountain-top  tribe  when  a  man  and 
his    family    lived    together    on    a    mountain-top 

146 


THE  SUN-WORSHIPPER  147 

and  the  rule  was  one  peak  to  one  family,  and 
the  eagles  were  tame  and  carried  the  mail." 

"  And  I  drink  to  Noah's  fourth  son,  who 
was  so  naughty  he  was  not  allowed  to  bring  a 
wife  into  the  Ark  but  carried  a  pine  branch 
under  his  arm.  Is  there  any  more  booze  i' 
the  can?  Yea.  Very  well;  I  drink  again  to 
Noah's  outcast  son  who  wandered  in  these  parts 
before  the  mountain-tribe  arrived." 

"  Is  there  any  more  of  this  most  excellent 
coffee?" 

"  There  is,  dear  Stephen,  one  last  kick  in 
the  bottom  of  the  pot." 

"  Then  I  drink  to  the  Lady  of  the  Lake 
whom  Noah's  son  was  obliged  to  marry 
and  to  the  cut-throat  trout  that  were  their  off- 


»> 


spring— 

"  Enough,     enough  1       Is     there     any     more 
booze?  " 

11  Not  a  suck,  Sir." 

"Alas!" 

The  reader  will  perhaps  surmise  that  we  are 
approaching  the  Canadian  line  and  that  my 
anti-saloon  companion  has  fallen  for  what  they 
make  in  Alberta. 


148       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

But  no,  we  have  been  made  drunk  with 
words;  it  often  occurs,  and  with  Lindsay's  stone 
coffee.  The  stone  in  the  mosquito-net  coffee 
bag  has  spoken  through  us.  It  is  a  piece  of 
the  Rocky  Mountains,  and  they  know  all  there 
is  to  know  about  the  mysterious  mound-builders 
and  mountain-tribes.  How  gauntly  and  savagely 
these  old  mountains  have  looked  on  at  no- 
humanity  and  for  how  many  thousands  of  years! 
"What  went  ye  out  for  to  see?"  said  Vachel 
presently  when  we  had  hitched  on  our 
packs.  "Not  a  reed  shaken  by  the  wind! 
What  went  we  out  into  Glacier  Wilderness  for 
to  see?  Why,  man,  a  prophet.  And  there's  a 
prophet  in  these  mountains  who  can  tell  us  a 
good  deal  about  the  old  world.  We  ought  to 
settle  many  things  about  the  world  before  I  get 
back  to  Springfield  and  you  get  back  to  London. 
Everywhere  you  have  been  I'm  going  to  assume 
I've  been  also.  Now,  at  our  next  sitting  let  us 
drink  to  Russia — Russia  as  she  was  before  the 
Bolsheviks." 

"As  she  was  before  Peter  the  Great,"  I 
added. 

"  As  she  was  before  the  hordes." 

The  subject  was  too  dark  after  all.     I   felt 


THE  SUN-WORSHIPPER  149 

we  should  have  to  drink,  not  to  the  past,  but 
to  the  Russia  that  is  going  to  be  when  the 
Bolsheviks  have  been  forgotten. 

"And  England?"  I  asked.  "Will  you 
not  drink  confusion  to  the  enemies  of  King 
George  V.  ?  " 


u 


Oh,  no,"  said  the  poet.  "  I'm  too  good  an 
American  for  that.  Couldn't  do  that.  My 
roots  are  too  deep  in  democracy.  Confusion  to 
the  enemies  of  King  George — no,  couldn't  drink 
it.  .Confusion  to  the  enemies  of  the  English 
people.  Yes,  I'd  drink  that  toast." 
'     "  Well,  it's  the  same  thing." 

"  Doesn't  sound  so." 

"  In  that  case,"  I  retorted,  "  I'll  not  drink  to 
the  President." 

But  Vachel  had  become  preoccupied  and 
began  an  unending  chant  of  Patrick  Henry's 
oration, 

t     Is  life  so  dear,  or  peace  so  sweet, 

As  to  be  purchased  by  chains  and  slavery — 
I  don't  care  for  others,  but  as  for  myself 
Give  me  liberty  or  give  me  death ! 

No  doubt  he  did  not  quote  it  quite  correctly, 
but  I  fastened  on  the  third  line,  which  I  repeated 


ISO      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

deliberately  after  him,  "  I — do — not — care — for 
— others,"  until  he  was  once  more  moved  to 
mirth  and  got  down  from  what  in  one  poem  he 
has  called: 

The  old  Elijah,  Jeremiah,  John  the  Baptist  soap- 
box; 

The  Rousseau,   Mirabeau,   Danton  soap-box; 

The  Karl  Marx,  Henry  George,  and  Woodrow 
Wilson  soap-box. 

And  we  washed  off  our  politics  from  our  minds 
at  high  noon  in  a  river.  And  Vachel  sat  astride  of 
a  giant  tree  that  had  fallen  across  the  stream,  and 
luxuriating  in  the  heat  he  cried  out  to  me,  "  Gosh, 
Stephen,  I'm  a  sun-worshipper  with  my  shirt  off  !  " 

Quit  drinking  coffee 

Before   it's   everlastingly   too   late; 

Be  not  found  among  the  coffee-bibbers! 

Silence  those  profane  toasts 

To  Noah's  offspring  and  Patrick  Henry. 

Oh,  Uncle  Sam, 

See  how  thy  children  go 

To   the  devil — drinking   coffee! 

0  prohibit  it! 


THE    WW)  CATCHETH  THE 
EAK  OF    THE  PM/MTIVE 


XXIV.   TWO   VOICES 


My  companion  has  two  voices :  one  is  that  of 
a  politician,  harsh  and  strident,  the  other  is 
that  of  a  Homeric  harper  and  ballad-chanter 
of  the  days  of  old.  The  political  voice  does 
not  please  me  much.  It  is  the  voice  of  the 
"hell-roarer"  of  the  prairies.  Lindsay  loves 
a  mighty  shout,  an  exultant  war-whoop  for  its 
own  sake,  like  any  Indian.  And  .  .  .  I've 
heard  those  "  glacier  boulders  across  the  prairies 

IS  I 


152       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

rolled."  I  have  heard  the  "  gigantic  trouba- 
dour speaking  like  a  siege-gun."  But  there  is 
another  voice — 

Two  voices : 

One  was  of  the  deep, 

The  other  of  a   poor  old  silly  sheep. 

And    .    .    .   both   were   thine ! 

as  G.  W.  Steevens  once  wrote.  The  other 
voice  is  truly  of  the  deep;  sonorous  and  golden, 
murmuring,  and  with  eternity  dreaming  in  it. 
That  is  the  voice  of  the  poet. 

Some  days  with  us  were  naturally  dedicated 
to  poetry.  The  steps  on  the  mountains  caught 
the  rhythms,  the  gliding  waterfalls  and  the 
intensely  coloured  listening  flowers  suggested 
the  mood  of  the  poets,  and  then  the  peaks, 
the  grandeur,  uplifted  Lindsay's  spirit.  The 
hymns  were  silenced.  Silence  hung  on  the 
mute  figures  of  Bryan  and  Altgelt.  We  let 
Roosevelt  sleep  on.  American  and  European 
civilisation  ceased  to  fill  the  mind,  and  there 
was  only  the  mountains  and  poetry.  Vachel 
knew  by  heart  whole  books,  and  he  crooned 
and  chanted  as  we  walked,  and  lifted  his  head 
up  to  the  snows  and  the  waterfalls  and  the 
skies.     He  has  a  bird-like  face  when  he  recites; 


TWO  VOICES  153 

his  eyes  almost  close,  his  lips  purse  up  and 
open  like  a  thrush's  beak.  He  glories  in  the 
word  of  poesy,  and  entirely  forgets  himself — 

Oh  ye  who  tread  the  Narrow  Way 
By  Tophet-flare  to  Judgment  Day, 
Be  gentle  when  the  heathen  pray 
To  Buddha  at  Kamakura. 

he  chanted  over  and  over  again  like  a  prayer, 
as  if  those  hushed  and  holy  mountains  on  which 
we  looked  were  Buddha,  Buddha  at  Kamakura. 
And  then — 

To  him  the  Way,  the  Law,  Apart 
Whom  Maya  held  beneath  her  heart, 
Ananda's  Lord — the  Bodhisat. 

For  whoso  will,   from   Pride   released 
Contemning  neither  man  nor  beast, 
May  hear  the  Soul  of  all  the  East 
About  him  at  Kamakura. 

Yea,  voice  of  every  Soul  that  clung 
To  Life  that  strove  from  rung  to  rung, 
When  Devadatta's  rule  was  young, 
The  warm  wind  brings  Kamakura. 

My  eyes  had  no  doubt  often  passed  over  these 
lines  without  realising  their  beauty.  The 
printing  of  a  poem  is  only  a  guide,  a  clue  to 
what  the  poem  really  is.     It  is  not  the  poem 


154      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

itself.  You  have  to  divine  the  inner  mystery 
and  beauty.  The  man  who  can  read  a  poem 
may  help  you  to  divine  it  for  yourself.  And 
this  Lindsay  did,  making  this  poem  live  as  we 
walked  about — about  and  about.  The  beauty 
of  the  poem  almost  depends  on  pronouncing 
the  word  Kamakura  aright.  Because  we  both 
loved  this  song  we  thought  of  naming  some 
snowy  mountain  after  Buddha,  with  the  great 
plea — "  Be  gentle !  "     Be  gentle,  all  of  us ! 

Another  poem  which  became  a  possession 
of  the  heart  was  that  of  Sydney  Lanier,  little- 
known  in  England — 

As  the  marsh-hen  secretly  builds  on  the  watery  sod, 
Behold  I  will  build  me  a  nest  on  the  greatness  of 

God. 
I  will  fly  in  the  greatness  of  God  as  the  marsh-hen 

flies, 
In  the  freedom  that  fills  all  space  'twixt  the  marsh 

and  the  skies 

By  so  many  roots  as  the  marsh-hen  sends  to  the 

sod, 
I  will  heartily  lay  me  ahold  of  the  greatness  of 

God. 
Like  the  greatness  of  God  is  the  greatness  within 
The  range  of  the  marshes,  the  liberal  marshes  of 

Glynn. 

This  poet  of  southern  Georgia  gave,  I  thought, 


TWO  VOICES  155 

voice  to  a  part  of  America,  and  it  was  a  part 
I  had  tramped  in  too,  a  land  of  moss-hung 
forests  and  marshes,  of  marsh-blossoms  and 
many  birds.  In  that  beautiful  first  verse  how 
the  word  "  secretly "  in  the  first  line  enchants 
the  ear,  and  then  the  wonderful  effect  of  the 
phrase  "  greatness  of  God "  when  taken  with 
wing-flight  of  birds  rising  o'er  the  reeds ! 

Talking  of  the  modern  poets,  we  agreed 
that  a  poem  was  little  if  there  was  not  sound 
in  it — melody — resonance.  We  found  a  com- 
mon fellowship  in  Poe,  and  my  companion 
rolled  forth  under  a  low  and  threatening  heaven 
the  cadences  of  "Ulalume,"  his  favourite  poem, 
he  averred. 

Browning  meant  nothing  to  him,  but  he  was 
fond  of  some  of  the  early  poems  of  Tennyson, 
especially  of  "  Maud,"  which  greatly  inspired 
him.  Curiously  enough,  the  latter  poems  of 
Tennyson  were  unknown  to  him — 

On  a  midnight  in  midwinter  when  all  but  the  winds 

were  dead, 
"  The    meek    shall    inherit    the    earth "    was    a 

Scripture  which  ran  through  his  head, 

and  the  kindred  poems  among  the  last  pages 
of  the  collected  works  of  Tennyson. 


156      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

Matthew  Arnold  had  never  touched  him, 
but  the  music  of  Keats  he  understood  naturally 
at  sight.  Of  his  own  American  poets  he  did 
not  care  for  Whitman,  whom  he  is  so  often 
told  he  resembles,  but  he  loved  Longfellow 
and  all  such  word-music  as — 

Sandalphon  the  angel  of  glory, 
Sandalphon  the  angel  of  prayer, 

all  of  which  he  said  one  day  as  we  were 
climbing  among  the  rocks. 

He  began  loving  poetry  by  learning  it  by 
heart  and  reciting  it  for  his  own  joy,  and  I 
began  by  writing  in  an  exercise-book,  all  the 
soldiers'  poems  of  Thomas  Campbell  and 
reading  them —  "  a  thousand  times  o'er  " — 

My  little  one  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fullness  of  heart. 
"Stay,  stay  with  us!  rest!  thou  art  weary  and 

worn," 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay; 
But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear — melted  away! 

How  precious  are  the  recollections  of  one's 
first  love  of  poetry!  If  as  a  boy  you  read  the 
"  Golden    Legend "    walking    in    country    lanes 


TWO  VOICES  157 

when  the  hay  was  cut  in  swathes  in  the  fields 
on  either  hand;  if  you  have  ever  lain  in  the 
midst  of  a  cornfield  and  crooned  to  yourself  the 
exultant  promises  of  Rabbi  ben  Ezra,  or  climbed 
mountains  with  "  Marmion "  in  your  heart,  or 
lisped  the  "  Ode  to  a  Nightingale  "  to  the  first 
girl  you  loved,  how  touching  it  will  always  be 
in  memory! 

The  poet  and  the  tramp  shared  thus  their 
recollections  as  they  wandered  amidst  heights 
and  depths.  They  surely  know  much  more  of 
one  another  now! 

/  think  the  poet 
Learned  to  be  a  poet, 
By  living  with  the  poets 
Till  he  became  a  poet. 

He  had  the  great  need  in  him 
To  give  a  song  a  tune. 
So  he  listened  how  the  birds  sang 
And  he  began  to  croon. 

Now  he's  singing  for  a  living 
And  living  for  his  singing. 
And  his  companion's  singing. 
And  all  of  us  are  singing, 
Because  he's  learned  to  sing. 


<«fcClOUO*Cvi6  0tf<* 


*# 


&* 


^ones  to  se 


5 

& 


XXV.   STOPPED   BY   THE   CLOUDS 


We  scrambled  through  thickets  to  Mount 
Grinnell,  which  stands  like  a  gigantic  fortress, 
a  bulwark  of  this  world  against  others.  Its 
impregnability  seemed  appalling.  Fancy  knock- 
ing at  that  door  after  it  was  shut!  We  stopped 
and  looked  up  at  it,  and  the  sight  of  it  relaxed 
our  tense  human  energy  and  left  us  with  very 
contrite  souls.  However,  the  nearer  we  got  to 
it  the  less  it  was  magnified.  Its  battlements 
receded   and   we   soon   had  a   fly's  view   of   the 

158 


STOPPED  BY  THE  CLOUDS       159 

mountain,  the  view  which  the  fly  has  when  it 
is  walking  on  the  barren  surface  of  the  rock. 

We  clawed  our  way  along  the  steep  en- 
tangled shore  of  Lake  Grinnell  to  a  waste  of 
willow  saplings,  and  a  litter  of  postal  packets 
of  great  rocks  delivered  by  the  mail  chute  of 
the  Grinnell  Cataract.  Here  a  great  mass  of 
water  meets  momentarily  with  calamity  and  falls 
over  a  precipice  like  houses  falling.  At  two 
miles'  distance  it  is  like  a  picture  of  a  water- 
fall seen  in  a  shop  window,  pretty  and  attractive. 
At  twenty  yards'  distance  it  is  the  awful  thing 
it  is.  The  sun  is  hidden  at  noon  and  a  noise 
that  drowns  all  other  noises  is  in  your  ears. 
The  spray  blows  turbulently  over  you  like  rain. 

We  had  thought  to  cross  the  cataract  through 
the  disjecta  membra  of  the  rocks  at  its  base, 
and  climbed  into  dreadful  proximity,  and  ad- 
vanced our  noses  inquisitively  over  the  foam. 
And  then  very  hurriedly  we  drew  back  as  if  we 
feared  we  should  be  tempted  across  it.  But 
what  to  do?  Not  surely  to  retrace  our  steps? 
That  seemed  unthinkable. 

We  decided  to  go  lower  and  try  to  ford  the 
rapids.  Vachel  thought  that  would  not  be 
difficult.      But   I    had   attempted    such   crossings 


160      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

in  the  Caucasus  and  knew  what  it  meant  to 
adventure  one's  tender  body  into  a  hypnotic, 
rushing  current  and  a  frantic  roar  of  stones. 
So  I  went  first  and  demonstrated  it. 

And  we  did  get  across.  With  most  of  our 
clothes  off  and  stuffed  into  our  packs,  and  with 
uprooted  pine  saplings  for  support,  we  made  a 
criss-cross  diagonal  course  into  the  water,  which 
rushed  up  our  bodies  like  wild  mastiffs,  and  we 
were  too  preoccupied  with  the  rolling  stones 
and  slippery  snags  and  the  mesmerising  onset 
of  the  waters  to  think  about  the  chilling  we 
were  getting.  It  was  certainly  a  victory  when 
we  slipped  out  of  the  central  violence  and  got 
into  the  shallows  on  the  other  side. 

We  did  no  more  that  day.  I  had  sprained  two 
fingers  anyway,  and  could  not  rely  on  my  left 
hand.  So  we  piled  a  dead-willow  fire  beside 
the  red  rocks  and  talked.  The  cliff  above  us 
went  up  to  heaven,  but  there  was  a  recess 
washed  out  by  the  water  of  that  waterfall  in 
some  past  age.  I  am  inclined  to  think  that  the 
cataract  made  the  wind  which  simply  raged 
round  the  corner  all  night  long.  But  we  had 
found   a  place   that   was   completely   out   of   it. 


STOPPED  BY  THE  CLOUDS       161 

Also,  we  got  enough  wood  to  burn  all  night 
and  cure  the  cold.  For  it  was  cold  up  here. 
We  built  a  long  barrier  of  little  rocks  between 
us  and  the  elongated  glowing  furnace  of  willow 
which  we  had  made.  This  kept  the  flames  off 
our  blankets  and  yet  warmed  our  bodies  all  the 
way  along. 

It  was  a  majestic  night,  with  the  screened 
light  of  the  moon  filling  a  narrow  sky.  A 
selection  of  heaven's  stars  played  voluntaries  to 
us,  but  the  jazz  band  of  the  waterfall  kept  up  a 
grandiose  hubbub,  in  which  were  vocal  human 
cries  and  groans  and  chatterings — as  if  it  were 
hell  or  Broadway  going  past. 

Vachel  could  talk  above  this  roar;  I  could 
not.  So  I  listened  to  him  and  his  cataclysmic 
accompaniment.  It  was,  I  think,  on  the  subject 
of  Turner  and  heroic  painting.  Vachel,  and 
Ruskin  before  him  were  attracted  to  Turner  by 
the  heroic  style. 

"  Scenes  such  as  this  beside  the  waterfall 
delighted  Turner.  Just  at  dusk  it  was  a  perfect 
Turner  painting.  Did  you  ever  see  that 
'  elegant '  edition  of  Rogers's  Italy  which  old 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Ruskin  read  with  their  child? 
It    is    profusely    illustrated    with    vignettes    by 


1 62      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

Turner.  They  are  all  in  the  heroic  spirit  and 
they  started  Ruskin  on  his  speculation  about 
cloud-forms  and  in  his  idealistic  interpretation 
of  Turner." 

"  I  love  the  heroic,"  Vachel  went  on.  "  I 
hate  the  game  of  puncturing  heroics  which 
people  think  so  clever  nowadays." 

I  made  no  objection.  A  poet  whose  voice 
can  be  heard  above  the  jazz  band  is  a  hero,  and 
my  sympathies  are  not  with  the  flood  of  the 
burlesque — unless,  as  now,  they  begin  to  wrap 
my    soul    in    slumber's    holy    balm. 

Next  day  we  went  up  to  the  clouds,  climbing 
by  tiny  steps  of  rock  and  slippery  tussocks,  and 
Vachel  went  ahead  and  became  pioneer  of  the 
way.  For  it  was  a  left-  handed  mountain,  and 
I  had  no  left  hand  that  I  could  use,  and  I  kept 
slipping  five  feet  down  in  making  one  foot  up. 
I  got  left  behind,  and  when  I  caught  up  with 
the  poet  he  was  sitting  stripped  under  a  water- 
fall and  leaning  against  a  gleaming  rock  whilst 
the  stream  splashed  downward  over  him. 

It  was  a  day  of  great  moving  clouds.  Clouds 
with  personalities  came  stalking  out  of  chasm 
bed-chambers,  clouds  overtook  us  and  enveloped 


STOPPED  BY  THE  CLOUDS       163 

us.  We  found  November's  home,  where  sweep- 
ing rains  cross  and  recross  on  the  mountains. 
We  passed  near  the  base  of  the  black  and  dirty 
glacier  and  watched  the  clouds  smoking  over  it 
like  a  spreading  fire.  And  presently  there  was 
not  a  particle  of  view  above  us  except  cloud, 
and  no  view  below  except  of  the  rocks  at  our 
feet   and   the   cloud-filled   ravines. 

We  stood  in  perplexity.  In  clear  weather 
it  is  difficult  to  get  over  the  "  Garden  Wall  " 
from  this  side.  Now  we  could  not  see  our  way 
any  further.  We  retired  to  twin  slits  in  the 
cliff,  stretched  ourselves  on  our  blankets,  and 
gave  way  to  meditation. 


«<■ 


i64      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

The  clouds  came  out  of  their  homes  to  see  us; 

They  had  heard  of  us  and  had  seen  us  from  afar% 

Now  they  could  satisfy  their  curiosity 

And  find  out  just  exactly  who  we  were. 

So  they  gave  us  of  their  hospitality , 

Inviting  us  both  to  their  mountain  abode. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.   Glacier  were  at  home — a  chilly 

couple, 
So  were  the  impulsive  avalanches,  a  family  of  long 

descent 
And  purest  origin. 

The  visitors  were  mostly  ladies  of  the  upper  strata 

of  society 
Most  aesthetically  gowned. 

They  came  about  us,  asked  us  various  questions, 
Conventional  questions  about  the  weather. 
Some  new  ones  came,  others  drifted  away. 
We  were  left  by  ourselves  at  the  last. 
The  clouds  didn't  altogether  like  our  style, 
Our  form   wasn't   theirs, 

We  were  obviously  parvenus,  Nature's  profiteers, 
Living  not  on  our  income  but  by  our  output. 
The  Peaks,  their  husbands,  with  their  patrimonies, 
Were  certainly  less  clever  and  more  stodgy, 
But  we  were  clear  outsiders,  people  of  a  lowly 

birth, 
Not  altogether  possible,  they  judged. 
So  the  clouds'  curiosity  regarding  us  abated, 
We  felt  pretty  chilly  towards  the  end  of  the  party. 
They  offered  us  no  tea,  though  we  each  had  an 

ice  on  a  wafer. 
Proud,  supercilious,  overweening  ladies! 


XXVI.  LINDSAY  ON  ROOSEVELT 

We  decided  to  change  our  direction  and  make 
for  the  camp  at  the  head  of  Lake  McDermot. 
This  we  could  hope  to  reach  by  nightfall,  as 
it  was  downhill  all  the  way.  It  was  moreover 
a  right-hand  descent  and  suited  me  well.  In 
an  hour  of  diving  and  plunging  downward  we 
got  out  of  the  clouds  and  saw  that  there  was 
fine  weather  away  to  the  East.  We  had  more- 
over found  a  foot-trail,  and,  "Bless  de  Lo'd  Fse 
found  de  way,"  cried  Vachel. 

Downward,  downward  to  the  low  pines,  to 
the  large  pines,  to  the  giant  pines — how  easy 
it  was  to  go  down.  I  thought  we  should  have 
little  difficulty  in  getting  to  the  little  log-cabins 
of  the  camp,   and  sleep   dry   for  once.     It  was 

165 


1 66      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

now  ten  days  since  we  had  last  had  a  roof  over 
our  heads.  The  prospect  was  pleasant;  we 
thought  of  the  hot  supper  awaiting  us.  We 
thought  of  the  drying  of  our  clothes  and  our 
blankets,  and  of  a  gentle  sweet  repose  of  our 
tumbled  and  jolted  bodies  between  white  sheets. 

The  descent,  however,  suited  Vachel  as 
badly  as  the  ascent  had  suited  me.  As  a 
short-legged  man  he  had  to  take  three  steps 
to  my  one,  and  he  constantly  serenaded  me 
through  the  evening  air — "Steeven  .  .  .  wait 
a  minute!     Little  Vachel's  lonesome!" 

I  would  stop,  he  would  draw  level.  c  Now 
wait  a  minute,"  he  would  say.  "  Let's  look 
back!  What  a  wonderful  view!  Isn't  it  a 
wonderful  view?  Let's  sit  here  awhile  and 
take  it  in — a  wonderful  view !  " 

Or  he  would  let  me  go  on  a  bit  and  then 
stop  me.  "  Stee-ven,  look  at  the  pine-tree, 
Jook  at  the  giant  tree,  giant  of  the  forest,  look 
what  a  great  giant!  Let's  sit  down  and  take 
it  all  in!" 

In  the  twilight  we  got  to  talking  of  oratory, 
which  is  one  of  the  poet's  pet  themes.  He 
holds  that  pure  oratory  is  natural  poetry. 
Bryan  is  a  poet;   Patrick  Henry  was   a   poet; 


LINDSAY    ON    ROOSEVELT       167 

Daniel  Webster  was  a  poet.  He  enunciated 
various  famous  lines  to  me,  trying  to  rouse  the 
mountains  with  a  sort  of  voice-of-God  tone  or 
air-bursting  boom   which   the   poet  commands — 

Lib-er-ty  and  Un-i-on    .    .    . 

One     .     .     .     and  in-sep-ar-able    .    .    . 

Now   .    .    .    and    .    .    .    for-everrr! 

and  he  imitated  Andrew  Jackson  saying — 
"  The  Federal  Union!  It  must  and  will  be 
preserved!  " 

I  found  in  the  poet  a  curious  creed,  and 
that  is,  that  oratory  is  better  than  logic.  He 
preferred  the  warm  glowing  orator  to  the  cold 
clear  logician.  He  preferred  Antony  to  Brutus, 
and  put  friendship  above  merit.  He  justified 
the  "  Solid  South  "  in  being  solid.  He  justified 
Wilson  for  appointing  his  friends  to  power. 
He  considered  politics  a  matter  not  of  theories 
but  of  friendships  and  family  ties.  He  justified 
the  spoils  system  to  me.  "  When  a  man  comes 
to  power — he  brings  his  clan  to  power,  his 
friends,  the  people  of  the  village,  and  that  is 
much  better  than  a  collection  of  high-browed 
experts,"  said  he.  He  loathed  detraction  and 
personal  attacks  of  any  kind.  The  commonest 
laudatory    adjective    which    he  used    to    me    in 


1 68       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

his  conversations  about  his  friends  was  the 
adjective  "  loyal."  I  could  not  persuade  him 
to  talk  critically  of  any  of  the  literary  work  of 
his  friends. 

"  Any  poet  who  is  a  friend  of  mine  is  a  good 
poet!"  cried  Vachel  more  than  once.  "I'm 
for  him." 

We  came  into  view  once  more  of  fair  Lake 
Josephine,  but  we  could  not  make  much  head- 
way. We  were  held  by  conversational  webs. 
The  poet  was  tired,  and  at  every  halting- 
place  he  started  on  some  engrossing  theme 
which  beguiled  us  into  spending  half  an  hour 
sitting  on  dead  trees.  He  was  in  the  role  of 
Scheherezade  talking  to  her  sultan.  We  ought 
to  have  plunged  down  to  the  lake-shore,  built 
a  big  fire  and  dried  off,  but  I  was  foolishly 
persistent  in  the  idea  of  getting  to  the  Many 
Glacier  camp  that  night.  Presently  we  started 
talking  of  Roosevelt,  and  the  poet  held  me  by 
the  coat  for  a  whole  hour  while  he  explained 
how  he  had  been  carried  off  his  feet  by  a 
Republican,  and  had  defied  his  family  and 
voted  for  Roosevelt  and  had  been  struck  out 
of  the  family  Bible,  so  to  speak. 


LINDSAY    ON    ROOSEVELT       169 

"  I  was  for  him  until  the  end  of  his  Presi- 
dency," said  Vachel.  "  He  refused  to  give 
business  and  high  finance  the  first  place,  he 
would  not  talk  the  holy  gospel  of  tariff,  he 
made  the  White  House  a  national  centre  of 
culture,  he  gave  a  great  progressive  lead,  and 
rallied  to  his  banner  the  bright  spirits  of 
America;  he  hit  the  shams  and  the  frauds 
and  the  trusts;  he  stood  by  the  Negro;  he 
was  not  afraid  to  express  what  he  thought  on 
any  subject  under  the  sun;  he  did  not  halt 
between  yes  and  no,  and  he  was  the  very 
opposite  of  the  Adams  type  of  politician." 

11  But  it  burned  him  out,"  Vachel  went  on. 
"  He  had  a  third  and  last  period  when  he 
was  not  himself,  when  he  acted  the  young  man, 
and    stage  -  managed    the     delusion    of    endless 


energy." 


And  he  told  the  story  of  Roosevelt's  last 
visit  to  Springfield  with  great  gusto,  imitat- 
ing Teddie's  mighty  stride  down  through  the 
people  to  the  platform,  the  war  -  cries  and 
yells  of  the  audience,  the  clash  of  the  brass- 
bands. 

"  And  he  was  not  an  orator,  and  he  did  not 
believe    in    the    spoils    system,"     I    interrupted 


170      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

maliciously.      "  And   he   did  not   believe   in    the 

families  ruling  America " 

No  wonder  we  got  lost  in  the  willows. 


d'm  ti-erd,  yes  a'm  ti-erd, 

A  got  th'  bloo—ooes  aw— fool  ba-ad. 

Ma  feet  is  sore; 

You's  awful  so— ore, 

Ain't  ye,  feet? 

That  fellah  over  the— ere 

'S  legs  is  just  too  lo—ong. 

Now  where' s  he  gwine  to  now? 

Where's  he  gwine  to  now? 
Vse  sheered  he'll  leave  me  here  a-lone, 
All  a—lo—one. 

Say,  Cap,  doan  go  on  so  fa-ar, 
Say,  boss,  you  sure  didn't  see  that  tree, 
You  cahn  have  no  feelin's  for  the  view 
Huhhyin'  on  so  fass — 

(Tired  Feet  Blues) 


'c*a>  ^ 


XXVII.  THE  WILLOWS 


When  I  was  at  Springfield  I  was  brought 
before  the  children  of  the  High  School,  where 
in  years  past  the  poet  went  to  school,  two 
thousand  children  in  a  grand  auditorium.  I 
think  we  could  show  nothing  of  the  kind  in 
England,  an  assembly  of  nearly  all  the  boys 
and  girls  between  the  ages  of  twelve  and  six- 
teen in  the  city — white  children,  black  children, 
immigrant  European  children  promiscuously 
grouped,  bright-faced  and  vivacious  and  feeling 


Tl 


7* 


172       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

all-together.  I  was  to  speak  to  them  on  Russia, 
but  before  my  turn  came  the  school  did  twenty 
minutes'  practice  at  the  school-yell.  For  there 
was  a  ball-match  on  the  morrow,  and  as  a 
young  orator  cried  out  to  them,  "  We  are 
going  to  win  to-morrow.  If  the  school  is 
behind  us  we'll  win." 

The  leaders  of  the  school-yell  came  out  of 
their  seats,  and  they  leapt  like  Indians  and 
flung  their  arms  about  and  writhed  and  appealed 
and  struck  the  floor  with  the  palms  of  their 
hands  and  appealed  again.  Thus  they  gave 
"  The  Locomotive  Yell,"  which  reminded  me 
of  the  voice  of  the  Purple  Emperor  Express 
in  Kipling's  locomotive  story  ".007."  Thus 
they  imitated  a  great  steam-engine  under  full 
pressure  of  steam,  laboriously  and  mightily 
and  then  victoriously  roaring  forth  from  the 
Grand  Terminal — 

Rah   .    .    .    rah    .    .    .   rah   .    .    .    rah — 
Spring   .    .    .    field    .    .    .   High    .     .     .    School 

(repeated  four  times  with  gradual  acceleration) 

Yea  Springfield 
Yea  Springfield 
Rah    .    .    .    Rah   .    .    .    Rah. 

Vachel  was  visibly  affected.      "  That's  where 


THE  WILLOWS  173 

I  get  my  inspiration,"  said  he.  "  I  just  love 
them  to  death.  I  feel  as  if  I'd  got  a  snoot 
full  o'  whisky.     I  just  love  them." 

It  would  be  idle  to  deny  that  these  yells 
did  not  raise  every  hair  on  my  scalp.  It  was 
an  astonishing  enkindling  of  the  primitive. 
When  I  stood  up  to  speak  to  these  children 
I  felt  myself  on  a  mighty  friendly  river.  I  was 
borne  along  by  a  rapturous  enthusiasm  which 
had  been  started  by  the  yells.  The  whole 
school,  boys  and  girls,  white  and  coloured, 
were  fused  in  one  glowing  whole.  And  Vachel 
said  to  me  once  more,  "  There  is  America." 

What  a  contrast  to  England,  where  the 
children  are  not  allowed  to  get  into  this 
rapturous  state!  If  you  have  faced  the  critical 
audience  of  Rugby  or  Harrow,  or  the  restrained 
maidenhood  of  a  school  like  High  Wycombe, 
you  realise  the  difference.  If  you  are  a  moving 
speaker  the  Head  may  even  ask  you  "  not  to 
get  the  children  excited." 

I  was  explaining  this  to  Vachel.  "  Well," 
said  he,  "  that's  how  it  is  in  England.  The 
duelling  spirit  survives.  Every  one  is  still  on 
his  guard.  The  American  has  thrown  his 
shield  away.     Most  human  beings  are  incapable 


174       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

of  understanding  anything  till  they  are  moved. 
That's  how  we  do  things  in  America,  and  go 
ahead,   by  whoops   and  yells — Whoopee !  " 

Roosevelt  made  America  into  one  man.  He 
mesmerised  America.  But  the  spell  failed,  and 
many  were  disillusioned.  His  destruction  of 
his  own  Progressive  party  was  a  terrible  blow. 

We  were  walking  now  in  the  woods  in  the 
dark,  and  heavy  rain  had  come  on,  and  we 
thought  we  were  on  a  foot-trail  and  were  not, 
and  we  got  into  a  lamentable  jungle  of  dev- 
astated pines  and  wild  undergrowth  and  water. 
We  walked  in  a  circle,  we  tore  our  clothes 
afresh,  we  climbed  pitiably  slowly  over  stark 
dead  jagged  trees  and  branches,  and  Vachel 
forgot  the  subject  of  Roosevelt  and  of  oratory, 
and  began  to  make  many  suggestions  as  to 
the  right  direction.  We  got  so  desperate  that 
I  said  to  him: 

"  You  think  you  know  the  way.  Go  ahead, 
I'll  follow." 

He  wouldn't  do  that. 

"All  right:  you  follow  me.  And  no  sug- 
gestions for  twenty  minutes.  We're  going  to 
get  out  of  here." 


THE  WILLOWS  175 

We  then  plunged  into  a  waste  of  tightly- 
packed  willow  trees,  all  about  ten  feet  high, 
with  branches  thickly  interlaced.  It  was  in- 
tensely dark,  and  they  soused  us  with  water 
at  every  step.  It  was  like  breast-stroke 
swimming  through  them.  We  came  to  a  pine- 
tree  island  in  the  midst  of  them,  and  then  after 
a  long  struggle  forward,  as  I  thought,  we  came 
back  to  the  same  pine  trees.  Then  Vachel 
said,  "  Let  us  just  lie  down  here  for  the  night. 
When  morning  comes  it  will  be  easier." 

But  the  ground  under  us  was  in  slops  of 
water,  and  rather  than  sit  and  shiver  there 
for  hours  I  was  all  for  getting  out,  and  still 
believed  it  possible.  This  faith  or  stubborn- 
ness was  at  length  rewarded,  for  we  came  to 
the  water  at  the  top  of  Lake  McDermot,  and 
it  was  nothing  to  us  to  walk  through  thigh- 
deep  water  for  half  a  mile  and  ford  the  river. 
We  were  so  soaked  with  the  water  of  the 
willows  that  we  must  have  made  the  lake  a 
little  wetter. 

So  we  made  our  way  to  the  palatial  hotel 
which  is  situated  on  the  north-eastern  corner 
of  Lake  McDermot.  Bedraggled,  hanging  in 
new  tatters  and  with  water  streaming  into  little 


176      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

pools  on  the  floor  when  we  stood  still,  we  were 
no  people  for  the  hotel.  And  we  read  on  the 
front  door,  "No  one  in  hob-nails  or  bradded 
shoes  allowed  to  enter  here."  The  many  lights 
shone  on  our  red  faces  for  a  minute,  and  then 
we  passed  on — to  the  log  cabins  of  the  campers 
and  the  hob-nailed  brethren.  And  there  we 
got  a  room,  and  we  opened  our  last  can  of 
pork  and  beans  and  ate  it  to  the  bottom,  and 
we  rung  out  our  streaming  clothes  and  hung 
them  to  dry,  and  we  put  Roosevelt  and  Bryan 
to  sleep,  and  the  poet  and  the  Guardsman  were 
hushed. 


The  joke  was  on  us  and  Nature  laughed  at  us, 

She  laughed  at  us,  she  would  not  help  us. 

She  sent  more  rain  and  laughed  again, 

Swish,  swish/ 

Ha,  Hal 

She  laughed  at  us,  she  would  not  help  us, 

She  sent  more  rain  and  laughed  again. 


s 


0?-W 


$ 


*  "U»£  «£*  ^ 


XXVIII.  JOHNNY  APPLESEED 


I  built  a  fire  by  the  roadside  opposite  the 
palatial  hotel  and  made  our  coffee.  "  It's  like 
lighting  a  fire  and  making  yourself  a  personal 
cup  of  coffee  on  Broadway,"  said  Lindsay, 
"  but  it's  fine."  It's  a  dramatic  act  and  startles 
the  imagination.  The  coffee-pot  could  be  made 
the  emblem  of  revolt —  "Go  West,  young  man, 
with  a  coffee-pot.  You  can  live  on  nothing  a 
year  with  a  coffee-pot.  Figure  it  out,  how 
little  money  you  need  to  live  in  the  wilds !  " 

177 


i78       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

Vachel    is    all    for    giving    the    business    man 
and  clerk  and  industrial  worker  a  three-months' 
vacation.      "  They  don't  work   in  these   summer 
months      anyway,"      says  he.         "  But  they   are 
afraid    of   being    reproached   if   they   take   long 
holidays.     Every  man  here,  be  he  a  millionaire 
or   a   poor  man,   works.     He   has   an   office,   he 
has    a    factory.       If  he  hasn't  these,   he  invents 
them.      He    believes    it    is    effeminate    to    take 
more  than  two  weeks'  holiday.      For  a  month's 
holiday    he    must    have    the    recommendation    of 
his    physician.       Otherwise    he    loses    caste    and 
may  be   called   a    '  lounge  lizard,'   which   is    one 
of   the   terms   of   abuse    which    sting   most.     On 
the    other   hand,    modern   work   becomes    every- 
day    more     sedentary,     more     mechanical.       In 
accountancy     figures     become     more      exclusive, 
in    the    workshop    automatic   machinery   becomes 
more  and  more  perfect.     It  dulls   and  enthralls 
the  mind." 

"Yet  how  easy  it  is  to  get  out  and  do  what 
we  are  doing!"     I  urged  in  agreement. 

"Go,  give  them  a  message,"  cried  the  poet. 

"Intelligentsia  of  the  world,  unite!  You  have 
nothing  to  lose  but  your  chains.  Young  men 
and  women,  get  free,  get  your  coffee-pots,  take 


JOHNNY  APPLESEED  179 

up  the  national  parks  and  the  free  lands  of  the 
West!" 

"I  have  an  idea  that  most  of  the  tramps  and 
vagabonds  of  our  country-sides  have  had  lives 
full  of  poetry.  The  men  who  are  dismissed 
as  eccentrics  were  often  mystics.  America  has 
not  liked  its  Thoreaus  and  its  Chapmans  .  .  . 
Johnny  Appleseed,  for  instance,  who  was  an 
American  St.  Francis,  has  been  generally 
laughed  at  as  a  sort  of  a  harmless  lunatic." 

We  talked  of  this  on  the  upward  trail  next 
day.  One  point  in  favour  of  the  hotel  had 
been  its  good  supply  of  canvas  trousers.  I 
bought  myself  a  pair,  and  was  thereby  saved 
the  reproach  of  looking  a  little  like  Johnny 
Appleseed  in  the  matter  of  my  attire.  I 
laughed  at  Johnny  for  having  worn  a  tin-can 
on  his  head  for  a  hat,  and  Vachel  was  at  pains 
to  defend  him  even  there.  But  the  poetry  of 
his  life  was  his  going  ahead  of  the  pioneers  of 
Ohio  and  Indiana,  and  planting  apple-orchards 
and  tending  them  and  watching  them  grow  for 
the  America  that  should  come  after  him.  I 
often  wonder  whether  the  large  red-gleaming 
Ohio  apples  of  to-day  do  not  come  from  him 
I've   stolen   them   and   munched   them    at   dawn, 


i8o       TRAMPING  WITH  A   POET 

as   I   tramped   to    the   West,    and   I    can    testify 
how  good  they  were — good  medicine. 

"And  so  for  us  he  made  great  medicine," 
says  the  poet  reverently,  quoting  his  own  new 
poem. 

Vachel  in  his  quest  for  beauty  was  regarded 
iby  many  as  a  crank,  an  eccentric.  He  endured 
the  humiliation  of  being  village-idiot,  or,  as 
they  call  it  in  the  Middle  West,  "town-boob." 
Awfully  silly  people  who  thought  themselves 
smart  would  stop  in  front  of  him  with  the  air 
of  a  Johnny  Walker  whisky  advertisement  and 
ask  him  quizzically  if  he  were  "still  going 
strong."  He  was  discovered  later,  and  hailed 
and  acclaimed  by  the  poets  of  America  and 
England,  but  even  then  the  dulled  folk  of 
business  and  politics  looked  doubtfully  upon 
him.  He  told  me,  for  instance,  how  a  cele- 
brated impresario  introduced  him  to  the 
notables  of  the  capital,  but  always  with  the 
formula — 

"I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Mr.  Vachel 
Lindsay  of  Springfield,  Illinois.  .  .  .  He  is  a 
pp — oet." 

So  there's  a  streak  of  sadness  somewhere  in 
the  poet's  mind,  and  it  comes  from  brother-man. 


JOHNNY  APPLESEED  181 

And  that  sadness  has  expressed  itself  in  a  love 
of  Johnny  Appleseed  and  all  others  whom  the 
Spirit  drives  into  the  wilderness. 

We  camped  then  under  an  overhanging  crag 
of  Mt.  Justinian  and  watched  the  moon,  half 
eclipsed  by  a  cliff,  creep  and  crawl  like  a  golden 
turtle  over  the  mountains,  over  the  mighty 
tops,  over  the  .  .  .  over  the  world,  whilst  bright 
silver  cloudlets  in  ball-robes  danced  lightly 
amongst  the  stars.  And  we  climbed  next  day 
by  twenty- four  zigzags  to  the  jagged  summit, 
and  rested  in  a  grand  snow-cavern  as  large  as 
a  church,  made  by  the  winds  and  the  drifts  in 
dread  mid-winter,  and  we  saw  the  clouds  blow 
off  the  glaciers  like  washing-day  steam  out  of  a 
kitchen  door.  The  poet  lifted  his  mighty  voice 
to  the  rocks,  and  they  sent  a  kindred  answer 
back  to  him.  He  called  the  snow-cavern 
Brand's  Church,  and  it  was  a  strange  and 
thrilling  place  in  which  to  abide. 

They  call  the  ridge  of  the  mountain  the 
"Garden  Wall,"  but  it  is  not  very  felicitously 
named.  But  it  is  wall-like.  It  is  like  an 
enormous  exaggeration  of  the  Roman  wall 
built  to    keep    out    the    Picts    and    Scots    from 


1 82       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

England,     but     it     is     a     rampart     against    the 
Martians  rather  than  against  man. 

We  came  at  last  to  a  joyous  company  in  an 
old-fashioned  inn,  and  made  happy  acquaintance 
with  a  band  of  hikers  and  sportsmen  and 
mountaineers.  Girls  with  riding-switches  in 
their  hands  were  dancing  with  one  another, 
and  a  tall  dark  striking  one  whom  I  called  the 
Spaniard  chummed  in  with  us  and  brought  her 
friend  and  made  Vachel  promise  to  recite.  We 
had  a  mountain-climbers'  supper,  and  when  this 
was  cleared  away  the  bears  came  down  the 
mountain  toward  us  for  the  leavings,  and 
watched  us  eagerly  and  ate  the  sweets  we 
threw  them,  and  when  the  bears  were  gone 
we  built  a  huge  bonfire  and  sat  around  and 
watched  the  sparks  fly  upward,  and  told  stories 
and  chaffed  one  another.  And  Vachel  talked 
to  us  all  of  the  virtue  of  the  West  and  read  to 
us  his  poem  of  the  hour — the  story  of  Johnny 
Appleseed,  who  in  the  days  of  President 
Washington  made  for  us  all — great  medicine. 


JOHNNY  APPLESEED  183 


Thackeray  advised  us — 

How  to  live  on  nothing  a  year. 

"Take  a  nice  little  house  in  May  fair; 

Ordet  everything  and  pay  nothing" 

We  can  go  one  better  than  that. 

Take  over  the  Rocky  Mountains 

As  your  personal  estate; 

Everything  arranged  for  you  in  advance, 

Complete  freedom   of  mind, 

And  no  bills. 

When  the  little  game  in  May  fair  is  played  out 

And  you  are  clearly  on  the  rocks, 

Be  sweet  about  it, 

Leave  your  friends  a  card, 

Tell  them  you've  been  advised  a  change  of  scene, 

You're  on  the  Rockies. 


HenCEFOKTH   I  CALL  Y6  nOT  SeRVATlTS 
BUT  FKienDS 

■fr 


XXIX.  LOG-ROLLING 


Vachel  slipped  near  Heaven's  Peak  and  turned 
a  double  somersault  downward,  buffeting  his 
head  with  his  huge  pack  (crammed  with  canned 
goods,  loaves,  blankets,  and  what  not)  and  then 
I  picked  him  up  and  found  he  had  sprained  his 
ankle. 

"Don't  think  I'm  hurt,"  said  the  poet.  "I 
yelled  because  I  was  scared.  I'll  be  all  right 
in  a  few  minutes." 

He    didn't    mind    the    pain,    but    he    loathed 

184 


LOG-ROLLING  185 

being  beaten.  Nevertheless  he  was  down  and 
out.  "We'll  go  on  to-morrow,"  said  he. 
"We'll  go  on  next  day." 

"Here  we  are,  and  here  we  remain,"  said  I, 
"till  the  ankle  has  recovered.  We  can  stay  a 
week  or  two  weeks,  and  I'll  go  back  for  more 
food.     So  let's  make  up  our  minds  to  it." 

So  we  stayed  by  a  flat-rocked  stream  on  a 
grand  slope  in  a  forest  of  stately  pines  and  firs. 
Vachel  sat  on  his  blankets  like  a  sultan.  And 
he  speedily  forgot  his  ankle  and  the  mountains 
and  Heaven's  Peak,  and  began  to  tell  me  the 
story  of  Elbert  Hubbard,  from  the  time  when 
he  travelled  in  Larkin's  soap  to  the  time  when 
he  wrote  "Who  Took  the  Lid  off  Hell?"  and 
went  down  in  the  Lusitania.  And  then  he  told 
me  the  substance  of  "A  Self-made  Business- 
man's Letters  to  his  Son,"  that  unashamed  best 
seller  which  portrayed  the  benevolent  soul  of  a 
Chicago  packer  before  Upton  Sinclair  dared. 
Then  he  told  me  a  fantastic  story  of  how  ten 
ne'er-do-well  men  of  Springfield  were  found 
ready  to  die  for  the  Flag.  Then  he  told  to  me 
from  memory  Edgar  Allan  Poe's  story  of  King 
Pest,  and  the  ghouls  of  the  forest  crept  close  to 
us  to  listen.     Then  he  told  me  of  the  prairie- 


"J'- 

«T'l 


1 86       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

schooners  which  used  to  have  inscribed  on  them 
"Pike's  Peak  or  bust!" 

"Heaven's  Peak  or  bust,"  said  I,  maliciously 
pointing  to  his  swollen  ankle.  "Lindsay, 
essaying  to  climb  Heaven's  Peak,  slipped  down- 
ward," I  went  on  facetiously,  imitating  the  style 
of  my  letters  to  the  Evening  Post.     He  smiled. 

"How  yer  feelin'?"     I  interjected. 

'I'm  feelin'  fine,"  said  he. 

'Shall  we  get  to  Canada?" 

'I'll  be  all-right  to-morrow." 

"We  ought  to  have  gone  further  whilst  the 
goin'  was  good,  eh?" 

"I'm  sorry,   Stephen,"   said  he   apologetically. 

"But  this  is  good?" 

"It's  good  enough  for  me." 

"All  right." 

Bringing  in  wood  for  a  big  fire  is  rather  a 
tedious  job,  but  I  hit  on  a  sporting  way  of  doing 
it  all  by  myself,  and  doing  it  better.  We  were 
at  seven  thousand  feet,  and  the  avalanches  and 
spring  floods  and  storms  had  wrought  havoc 
among  the  trees.  Fine  dead  trunks  lay  in 
scores  on  the  mighty  slope  of  the  mountain. 
Our  fire  was   at  the   foot   of   a   slippery  granite 


LOG-ROLLING  187 

slide.  So  I  took  a  stout  young  pine-tree,  and 
began  to  lever  the  great  dead  trees  and  set 
them  rolling  downward.  Vachel  was  perched 
on  a  rock  above  the  fire,  and  the  logs  arrived 
at  the  embers  below  like  colliding  locomotives, 
with  a  great  bump  and  showers  of  sparks.  It 
was  possible  to  lever  and  roll  downwards  logs 
that  were  thirty  or  forty  feet  long,  and  we 
pulled  the  great  lumps  of  their  sprawling 
resinous  roots  on  to  the  fire. 

We  slept  that  night  among  the  granite 
shelves,  and  the  pine  -  roots  roared  as  they 
burned,  and  the  great  rocks  beside  the  fire 
cracked  under  the  heat  with  a  sort  of  earth- 
quake thud  which  registered  a  buffet  on  our 
bodies  ten  yards  away. 

We  stayed  four  days  in  this  wonderful  spot, 
and  I  became  fascinated  with  log-rolling.  Even 
Vachel,  with  his  ankle,  hobbled  after  me  and 
tried  to  do  it  too.  We  talked  of  political  and 
literary  log-rolling,  log-rolling  for  one's  friends. 
"I'm  all  for  it,"  said  the  poet.     "Log-rolling  is 


a  virtue." 


Then  he  recounted  to  me  the  origin  of  the 
expression — log-rolling.  "It  is  a  Western 
term,"  said  the  poet.     "It  also  comes  from  the 


188       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

life  of  the  pioneers.  You  know  how  it  was; 
the  settler  chose  the  site  of  his  log-cabin  or  of 
his  new  barn,  and  then  went  into  the  forest  and 
felled  the  number  of  trees  necessary,  and  he 
left  them  lying  where  they  had  fallen,  and  then 
called  his  friends  together  for  a  festive  occasion. 
They  all  worked  together  for  him,  and  rolled  his 
logs  to  the  most  convenient  spot  where  they  could 
be  piled  to  make  his  home.  Of  course  he  always 
gave  his  friends  a  luncheon  first,  and  then  they 
went  off  and  rolled  his  logs  home  for  him." 

"And  I  like  that,"  said  the  poet.  "No  man 
can  hope  to  do  much  in  this  world  without  the 
help  of  friends.  And  I  for  one  would  not 
want  to." 

Go  to  it  then,  ye  log-rollers  of  the  literary 
world,  ye  friends,  we'll  lunch  ye,  we'll  give  you, 
coffee  with  a  kick  of  a  mule  in  it,  and  fried 
corned-beef  hash  fit  for  the  best  friend  of  the 
Grand  Vizier's  cook.  And  he,  as  you  know, 
fares  better  than  the  Sultan  himself. 


LOG-ROLLING  189 


Who  rolled  home  Shakespeare's  logs? 

We  did:  we  helped  to  do  it. 

All  the  world  has  given  a  hand. 

Were  they  lunched  first? 

Ah,  I  doubt  it. 

But  that  was   not  Shakespeare's  fault, 

He  was  a  jolly  fellow/ 


N.B. — According  to  Frederick  Dallenbaugh,  writing  to  the 
New  York  Post,  the  real  log-rolling  commences  after  the  logs 
have  been   brought  to  the  site: 

"The  foundation  logs  for  the  house  having  been  duly 
notched  and  fixed  in  position,  another  tier  is  placed  on  top 
of  them,  and  then  another,  and  so  on  till  the  log  wall  is  of 
the  prescribed  height.  Now,  it  is  obvious  that  it  would  be 
difficult  to  lift  the  logs  up  on  to  this  growing  wall.  Primitive 
science  then  comes  to  the  builder's  aid.  Other  logs  are  placed 
at  an  incline  against  those  already  established  in  their  position 
and  the  logs  that  are  to  surmount  the  lower  logs  are  rolled 
up  the  incline  into  place. 

"From  this  came  the  invitations  sent  out  by  the  prospective 
builder  to  come  to  his  log-rolling." 


XXX.  TOWARD  THE  KOOTENAI 


Summer  began  to  give  way  to  winter  on 
the  mountains.  There  were  very  cold  nights, 
and  frost.  The  full  moon  made  the  forest 
spacious,  and  the  beautiful  fir-trees,  like 
candelabras,  glittering  with  silver  lights.  The 
mornings  were  of  an  intense  stillness  as  if 
ordained  whilst  God  walked  in  the  garden. 
We  had  stayed  three  days  beside  a  grey  rock- 
wall  which  was  eight  feet  high,  and  it  began  to 

190 


TOWARD    THE    KOOTENAI       191 

have  the  light  of  home  upon  it,  and  one  might 
have  lived  there  long. 

Vachel  soon  began  to  feel  much  better, 
though  he  looked  quaint,  hobbling  along  the 
rocks  and  uneven  woodland  holding  on  to  a  tall 
pine-cudgel  which  he  had  cut.  He  wore  a  red 
cotton  handkerchief  over  his  crumpled  hat,  and 
it  was  tied  in  knots  under  his  chin.  He  was 
week  at  all  joints  and  walked  like  a  dwarf  who 
lives  in  a  hollow  tree,  a  fairy-like  antediluvian 
old  fellow.  His  red  wind-blown  face  was  lined 
and  lined.  His  eyes  twinkled  as  he  walked. 
He  stooped  to  pick  up  wood,  he  looked 
cautiously  about  him,  and  I  had  the  feeling 
that  he  would  rapidly  scurry  away  if  a  human 
being  came  into  view. 

I  returned  to  camp  for  a  bagful  of  provisions, 
and  bright-faced  Myrtle  La  Barge  gave  me  a 
whole  apple-pie  to  take  to  the  poet  in  memory 
of  Johnny  Appleseed,  and  she  gave  me  large 
overweight  of  cheese  and  apricots  and  ham 
and  all  the  rest  I  asked  for.  That  night  a 
bear  came  after  us,  smelling  the  ham,  and  I 
said  to  him,  "Bite  Daniel,  bite  him,  bite  him!" 
and  the  bear  studied  us  some  paltry  half-hour, 
but  as  the  Comick  saith,  "his  mind  was  in  the 


i92       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

kitchen."  And  he  said  to  the  poet  with  a  dis- 
appointed groan — "How  about  the  ham?" 
But  Vachel  then  waved  his  pine-cudgel  and 
the  bear  did  waver  with  his  hind-quarters  and 
ran  away.  The  poet  then  became  a  silent 
watcher  for  the  rest  of  the  night. 

We  set  off  next  day  for  the  Kootenai  River, 
and  Vachel  had  tied  up  his  game  foot  in  a 
dozen  ropes  and  bindings,  and  it  was  soaking  in 
iodine  besides,  and  we  went  very  slowly  and  he 
sang  hymns  all  the  way.  I  said  to  him,  "You 
won't  mind,  Vachel,  if  I  go  ahead  some  distance." 
For  his  singing  scared  the  wild  animals.  The 
white-vested  woodpecker  walking  like  a  great 
fly  up  the  dead  poles  of  old  pines,  tapping  as 
he  went,  paused  meditatively  at  the  sound  of 
Vachel's  voice;  the  grouse  and  the  ptarmigan 
tripped  ahead  of  us  like  hens,  and  scurried  out 
of  view;  little  piggy  the  porcupine  trembled  in 
all  his  beautiful  quills;  and  the  squirrels  scolded 
from  all  the  trees  as  if  we  were  a  terrible 
annoyance.  I  am  not  surprised.  At  school 
at  Springfield  the  teacher  used  to  say:  "All 
sing  except  Vachel,"  the  reason  being  that  he 
has  his  own  voice  entirely.  Thus,  in  slow  and 
devastating     accents,     keeping     pace     with     the 


TOWARD    THE    KOOTENAI       193 

enforced  slow  walk  and  pine-cudgel  progress, 
you  might  have  heard  him  singing — 

We  .    .    .  shall  .    .    .  dwell  ...  in  that  fair  and 

happy  .    .    .  land 
Just  across  .   .   .  from  the  ever-green  sho-o-re. 

and  I  put  distance  between  us,  but  ever  as  he 
caught  up  I  could  hear  the  scared  animals 
rushing  away.  I  grew  facetious  about  the 
ever-green  shore,  after  he  had  sung  it  fifty-five 
times,  and  he,  with  utter  meekness,  gave  it  up 
from  that  hour  forth  and  sang  instead: 

When  he  cometh,  when  he  cometh, 
To  make  up  his  jewels. 

We  descended  into  a  profound  and  shadowy 
valley  where  the  pines  and  firs  got  loftier  as  if 
trying  to  reach  the  level  of  the  mighty  cliffs 
above  them,  but  all  their  branches  hung  in  veils 
of  the  tillandsia  moss.  Here  were  firs  with 
thousands  of  Uncle  Sam  beards  of  yellow-green 
hair  hanging  from  thousands  of  sharp  chins. 
The  great  depth  of  the  brown  floor  of  the 
forest  was  roofed  in  by  darkness,  and  tree-tops 
and  moss.  We  came  down  to  a  wild  brawling 
stream   which   rent  the   forest   in  twain   and   let 


i94      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

in  the  fairness  of  the  sky  and  the  sun.  It  was  a 
perfect  place  and  I  must  say  we  did  not  expect 
to  meet  anybody  there. 

We  took  off  our  clothes  in  the  sun,  and 
naked  Lindsay  took  his  shirt  to  wash  in  the 
stream.  Naked,  I  made  a  fire  by  the  water- 
edge,  and  put  on  the  coffee-pot  to  boil.  The 
water  of  the  river  was  ice-cold,  and  surrep- 
titiously dipping  a  limb  in  it,  one  registered  the 
fact.  Many  brown  comma  butterflies  danced 
in  the  sunshine,  and  settling  on  our  arms  and 
legs,  tickled  us,  throwing  their  honey-tubes 
deep  into  our  pores  and  getting  their  luncheon 
before  we  got  ours.  Evidently  we  were  a 
couple  of  sweet  boys. 

Our  innocence  was,  however,  sharply  dis- 
turbed by  an  unwonted  cry  and  a  shout,  and  a 
red-faced,  large-eyed,  half-breed  Indian  sud- 
denly appeared  on  horseback  along  the  river 
shore.  He  was  trying  to  protect  the  eyes  of  his 
party.  But  he  was  too  late.  We  made  a  rapid 
scramble  and  dived  as  a  party  of  five  highly- 
amused  girls  came  past,  and  following  them  a 
dozen  pack-mules,  carrying  their  camping  out- 
fits and  party-frocks. 

I  lay  in  the  water  after  that  and  thought  it 


TOWARD    THE    KOOTENAI       195 

over  whilst  a  cascade  of  melted  snow  rushed 
down  my  neck,  and  I  saw  on  the  shore  the 
coffee-pot  lifting  its  lid  and  spitting  many  times. 
Presently  I  saw  the  Indian  re-appear  and 
struggle  through  the  forest  wreckage  of  the 
river-bank. 

"The  party  apologises,"  says  he,  "for  coming 
upon  you  unexpectedly."  I  apologised  in 
return. 


When  Actaeon  saw  Artemis  at  her  bath, 
The  goddess   changed  him   to   a  stag. 
And  when  Tiresias  saw  Athene  thus 
She  robbed  him  of  his  eyes. 

But  when  these  goddesses  saw  Actaeon  and  Tiresias 
A-bathing. 
They  laughed. 
We  meant  nothing  to  them 
Corn-pared  with  what  they  knew  they  meant  to  us. 


*   *& 


-m^ 


:    ^r^HH^ 


■^- — 


>*k. 


>*r 


^~^»»^ 


cf&iKnny 


«% 


% 


XXXI.  AS  THE 
SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD 


We  lunched  on  ham  and  peas  and  caramel  cake, 
and  lay  in  a  natural  cradle  among  the  roots  of 
giant  firs,  and  slept  for  an  hour  of  a  perfect 
afternoon.  After  the  ice-cold  dip  and  scalding 
coffee  and  a  good  feed  and  a  self-indulgent 
snooze,  we  knew  ourselves  to  be  well  and 
certainly  happy.  What  a  thing  is  physical  well- 
being — to  be  hard,   to  be  fit,   to  be  cool,   to  be 

196 


AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD  197 

clear-headed,  to  know  there's  a  live  spring  in 
every  muscle,  and  then  to  be  care-free  and  able 
to  sleep  in  the  afternoon! 

Vachel's  ankle  went  very  well,  the  danger 
was  that  he  might  do  too  much  on  it.  We 
walked  three  or  four  miles  up  stream  and  then 
camped  for  the  night  on  a  wild  triangle  along- 
side a  mighty  barricade  of  the  jetsam  of  broken 
water-washed  tree  trunks,  some  as  long  as  fifty 
feet.  We  lodged  in  the  profound  trough  of  a 
characteristic  Western  canyon.  Night  came 
quickly,  and  our  camp-fire  light  obscured  the 
stars.  The  giant  trees  with  shadowy  bases 
climbed  sheer  out  of  sight  into  the  murky  sky 
above.  The  brown  and  white  foaming  river, 
like  hundreds  of  swimming  beavers,  rolled  on- 
ward past  us  all  the  while.  We  boiled  from  it, 
washed  clothes  in  it,  made  soap-foam  over  it, 
but  the  ever-freshening  waves  purified  our 
margins  faster  than  we  could  sully  them.  We 
paddled  about  in  bare  feet  on  the  shore  and 
gathered  wood  whilst  the  firelight  played  on  the 
stones,  and  we  heaped  high  the  bonfire.  I 
stood  on  a  mighty  chief  of  the  forest  and  flung 
lesser  logs  from  the  water-washed  wood  barri- 
cade right  to  the  fire,  and  they  landed  one  after 


198       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

another  with  a  thud  and  a  roar  in  the  midst  of 
the  flames.  Then  we  lay  flat  on  our  backs  on 
our  blankets  and  watched  our  sparks  fly  up  and 
die  in  scores,  in  thirties,  in  fives,  in  thirty-fives, 
in  hundred  and  fives.  What  a  giddy  and  wild 
life  some  of  them  had!  How  they  whirled! 
How  impetuous  were  some,  how  serpentine 
others !  We  saw  how  all  of  them  trailed  their 
light  as  the  first  escaped  from  the  fire,  and 
were  like  serpents  of  flame. 

"They  do  not  die,"  said  the  poet.  "They 
only  seem  to  die;  they  go  on,  like  ideas,  into 
the  invisible  world.  I'd  like  to  write  a  volume 
of  adventures,  the  story  of  the  adventures  of, 
say,  twelve  different  sparks." 

It  was  very  white  wood  and  very  red  fire. 
And  it  was  slow-burning,  for  the  resin  had 
been  washed  out  of  all  their  boles.  The  fire 
glowed  and  glittered  and  was  sociable  and  was 
taking  time  to  live  and  taking  time  to  die. 
Our  eyes  grew  hot  and  staring,  like  children's 
eyes  sitting  in  front  of  the  yule-logs  listening  to 
Christmas  tales  after  their  bed-time  hour. 

Our  thoughts  fly  up  brightly  and  then  dis- 
appear, but  goodness  knows  where  they  go  to. 
Our  fancies  stream  upward  idly  like  little  flaming 


AS  THE  SPARKS  FLY  UPWARD  199 

serpents.  Life  is  a  fire,  and  we  keep  on  burning 
and  throwing  up  sparks.  We  are  very  pretty,  if 
we  could  only  see  ourselves,  with  our  thoughts 
and  fancies  jumping  out  of  us  and  flying  from  us. 
The  fire  will  burn  out  towards  dawn,  and  then 
the  sparks  will  cease.  They'll  only  be  a  happy 
memory  then.  But  the  poet  believes  the  sparks 
go  on. 

What  a  silence!  The  river  is  roaring  past 
like  the  river  of  time  itself,  but  we  have  forgotten 
it,  we  have  detached  ourselves  from  it,  and 
beside  our  little  fire  there  is  a  silence  all  our 
own.  We  have  a  silence  and  a  noise  at  the 
same  time.  There  is  a  stillness  and  aloofness 
and  a  sense  of  no  man  near. 

A  disturbing  thought  comes.  "If  there  were 
an  earthquake  in  San  Francisco  you'd  feel  the 
tremor  here.  If  there  were  an  earthquake  in 
the  West  the  river  might  suddenly  flow  over  us. 
We  listened,  we  tried  to  sense  the  sleeping 
world,  the  ball  on  which  we  were  lying.  How 
still,  how  peaceful  it  was !  Not  a  tremor,  not 
a  quiver  from  beneath  us!  Old  earth  slept  the 
perfect  sleep  of  a  child.  We  too  could  sleep 
that  way,  and  presently  some  one  spoke  but  the 
others  did  not  reply,  did  not  dear.     One  was  left 


200      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

speaking  and  the  other  was  asleep.  All  became 
still  and  quiet  in  the  temple.  The  candles  were 
still  burning.  But  the  priest  had  gone.  It  was 
night,  and  the  Spirit  reigned  in  serenity.  And 
the  candles  were  still  burning. 


«4r 


A  tiny  spark  was  born  to-day; 
It  said  good-b'ye  to  yesterday. 
It  carried  up  a  tiny  light, 
Said  good-day  and  then  good-night. 
"Good-morrow!  said  the  tiny  spark, 
But  ere  the  morrow  came  'twas  dark. 
So  that's  the  best  that  he  can  do, 
In  his  own  time  say  "How  d'ye  do. 


>> 


#  +  EA^. 


XXXII.  THE  STAR 
OF    SPRINGFIELD 

Next  day,  tramping  to  Flat  Top  Mountain,  we 
talked  of  Springfield  and  Abraham  Lincoln. 
We  were  in  stately  forests,  and  the  ancient 
mould  under  the  feet  silenced  our  steps.  We 
walked  slowly,  and  stopped  to  pick  the  big 
black  huckleberries,  paused  to  climb  over 
stricken  trees,  paused  to  eat  the  raspberries 
from  the  undergrowth  of  raspberry  bushes. 

"I'd  like  you  to  think  of  Lincoln  as  a  poor 
man,"    said   Vachel,    "an   eccentric — laughed   at, 

20I 


202       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

sneered  at  a  great  deal,  entirely  underestimated, 
a  man  who  was  a  mystic,  who  believed  in 
dreams  and  presentiments  and  told  many 
dreams  to  his  Cabinet  with  great  gravity. 
Politicians  want  to  see  in  him  a  conventional 
great  man  now,  but  in  his  life-time  he  was 
called  eccentric.  He  was  as  much  laughed  at 
as  Johnny  Appleseed.  But  if  a  man  is  called 
eccentric  in  this  country,  or  much  laughed  at, 
you'll  often  find  he  was  a  mystic  or  a  genius 
of  some  kind." 

One  of  Vachel's  alternative  ideas  for  a  tramp 
was  to  do  a  Springfield  star,  making  the  city 
our  centre  to  radiate  outward,  or,  could  I  say, 
walk  radiantly  outward,  in  one  direction,  then 
in  another,  all  round  the  compass.  "As  you 
went  to  Bethlehem  with  the  Russian  pilgrims 
so  you  could  pilgrimage  to  our  Bethlehem," 
said  he,  "see  our  star." 

People  from  all  parts  of  the  world  come  to 
Springfield  to  see  the  Lincoln  home,  to  visit 
Salem  and  the  grave  of  Anne  Rutledge,  to 
salute  Lincoln's  grave.  They  do  so,  not 
because  they  are  told  to  do  so,  or  because 
there  are  organised  tours,  but  because  the 
heart  moves  them  to  it. 


THE   STAR  OF  SPRINGFIELD     203 

But  there  are  also  many  people  in  America 
ready  to  turn  their  backs  on  the  simple  Abe 
Lincoln  of  Springfield.  He  is  too  rough 
for  them,  too  untidy,  too  raw.  They  would 
fain  think  of  him  as  a  man  of  aplomb,  a 
man  of  a  well-established  family,  one  of  the 
governing  class.  Lincoln's  son  Robert  is 
president  of  the  Pullman  Car  Company,  and 
they  would  see  the  father  in  the  son  and 
surmise  a  family  well-lined,  well-wadded,  well- 
upholstered.  In  that  class  you  can  get  to 
power,  and  be  carried  there,  and  sleep  on  the 
way.     Belong  to  that  class  and  all  is  yours! 

But  the  real  Abe  Lincoln  gives  the  lie  to 
this.  It  offends  some  people  to  the  heart  to 
think  that  Lincoln's  father  lived  in  a  three- 
ways-round  log-cabin  with  the  fourth  side  not 
built  in,  that  young  Abraham  was  a  barge-man, 
what  we  call  in  England  a  bargee,  and  came 
down  the  Sangamon  River  in  a  flat-bottomed 
boat  with  a  cargo  and  got  stuck  on  the  dam 
at  Salem  and  accepted  a  job  there,  and  slept 
in  a  sort  of  loft  over  a  ramshackle  tavern,  men 
one  side  of  a  plank,  women  the  other,  and  that 
Re  rose  out  of  the  very  depths  of  American  life. 

"What  Lincoln   did,    any  boy  in   the   United 


204       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

States  can  aspire  to  do,"  cried  Vachel  as  we 
sat  on  a  log  together  and  looked  at  the  shadow 
and  shine  of  the  myriad-fold  population  of  trees. 
"We've  no  governing  class.  We've  only  got 
a  class  that  thinks  it  is  the  governing  class, 
but  it  is  the  most  barren  in  the  community. 
Lincoln's  life  shows  the  real  truth.  Any  one 
who  feels  he  has  it  in  him  can  rise  to  the 
Presidency  of  the  United  States." 

I  promised  to  make  the  pilgrimage  to  the 
Lincoln  shrines  when  our  tramp  should  be  over 
and  we  returned  to  Springfield.  Then  Vachel 
was  fired  by  his  pet  fancies  about  his  native 
city.  He  would  have  it  all  painted  white,  like 
the  Chicago  World's  Fair.  "White  harmonises 
all  sizes  and  shapes  of  houses  and  all  types  of 
architectural  design.  And  it  has  an  effect  on 
the  mind.  It  suggests  the  ideal.  If  the  city 
were  all  painted  white,  then  people  would  try 
to  live  up  to  its  appearance.  Then  also  it 
would  stand  out  among  all  cities  of  America. 
The  very  fact  of  its  painting  itself  white  would 
go  into  every  newspaper  in  the  United  States, 
it  would  be  known  in  all  English-speaking 
lands  and  would  direct  world-attention  to  the 
shrine  of  Abraham  Lincoln,"  said  he. 


THE   STAR   OF   SPRINGFIELD     205 

It  seemed  to  me  a  practical  idea,  and  I  bade 
him  preach  it  still.  He'd  find  valuable  allies 
in  the  paint  merchants  and  painters  of  Spring- 
field anyway.  If  America  could  go  "dry"  one 
need  not  despair  of  Springfield  painting  itself 
white.  "In  America  all  things  are  possible," 
as  a  German  street-song  says. 

He  returned  once  more  to  his  story  of  the 
ten  who  died  for  the  flag  of  Springfield — the 
new  flag  of  the  city.  "I've  always  felt,"  said 
he,  "that  there  could  be  found  at  least  ten  men 
among  the  unlikely  fellows  who  loaf  around 
our  town  square  ready  to  give  their  lives  for 
Springfield.  If  ever  there  came  a  time  when 
Springfield  was  in  danger  or  its  flag  likely  to 
be  dishonoured,  I  know  it  is  from  the  tramps 
and  wasters  that  something  would  come.  At 
least,  from  the  people  we  don't  know." 

"If  only  I  could  write  that  idea  as  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  wrote  'King  Pest,'  "  said  the  poet, 
"then  I'd  tell  the  truth  and  shame  the  Devil." 

"Yet  Springfield  was  once  disgraced  by  a 
most  unholy  race-riot,"  my  companion  went 
on.  "It  was  in  1908,  the  centenary  of  Lincoln's 
birth,  and  I  felt  it  as  a  terrible  disgrace.     The 


206      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

negro  victims  were  entirely  innocent.  It  was 
a  shocking  affair." 

We  had  by  this  time  lifted  ourselves  high 
out  of  the  gloomy  valleys  and  had  attained  to 
a  rarer  atmosphere  and  a  clearer  world,  where 
the  forest  lay  below  like  a  book  that  has  been 
read  and  above  it  rose  the  eternal  hills  lifting 
their  mighty  granite  shoulders  to  the  sky.  We 
saw  in  retrospect  many  of  the  mountains 
we  had  climbed.  "Going-to-the-Sun"  and 
"Heaven's  Peak"  were  remote  but  grandiose 
on  the  horizon.  We  were  on  a  much-exposed 
ridge  of  Ffat  Top  Mountain,  and  we  camped 
in  a  wintry  spot  beside  a  natural  table  of  rock. 
On  the  rock  we  spread  our  supper;  on  the 
ground  our  blankets.  The  wind  blew  the 
flaps  of  our  blankets,  it  blew  away  the  flaming 
embers  of  the  bonfire  which  we  made,  and  it 
ignited  the  grass,  and  when  we  had  put  the 
fire  out  on  one  side  it  broke  out  on  the  other, 
and  yet  there  was  not  enough  of  a  fire  to  warm 
us.  Night  came  on,  and  we  sought  new  fuel. 
Vachel  hobbled  beside  me  and  discoursed  in 
a  preoccupied  way  about  Springfield  and  its 
race-riot. 

"I'm  with  you  all  the  way  about  the  Negroes, 


THE   STAR   OF   SPRINGFIELD     207 

Stephen,"  said  he,  as  we  struggled  to  upraise 
an  embedded  sapling  which  the  snows  had 
tumbled  over  in  the  spring.  "If  you  write 
about  the  Negro  again,  say  I'm  with  you,  I 
subscribe  to  it.     I'll  go  the  limit  with  you." 

We  raised  the  entangled,  difficult,  fallen 
tree  up  on  to  the  star-radii  of  its  roots,  and 
looked  down  the  wild  slope  to  where  our  fire 
was  burning  and  blowing.  It  was  dark  up 
there  where  we  were,  and  the  fire  below  gleamed 
in  the  darkness.  We  rolled  the  sapling  down 
to  the  fire  and  on  to  it,  and  stamped  out  the 
flames  in  the  grass,  and  then  returned  into  the 
darkness  for  another  sapling. 

"You  know  how  I  felt  in  Springfield  when 
that  riot  occurred,"  said  Vachel.  "I  visited 
all  the  leading  Negroes  and  most  of  the  lead- 
ing white  men.  I  bombarded  the  newspapers 
with  letters.  And  I  don't  know  that  it  did 
any  good.  You  couldn't  be  sure  that  another 
onslaught  on  the  coloured  people  wouldn't  occur 
to-morrow." 

As  we  talked  we  sought  and  collected 
withered  branches,  wind  -  riven  arms  of  the 
pines.  Some  we  had  to  pull  out  of  the  earth, 
others  we  could  not  pull  out. 


208       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

"I  believe  the  only  way  to  stop  lynching 
would  be  to  break  into  a  lynching  crowd  and 
make  them  either  lynch  you  instead  of  the 
Negro  or  lynch  you  for  interfering.  When  they 
realised  what  they  had  done  their  hearts  would 
be  touched,  their  consciences  would  be  shocked," 
said  Vachel. 

We  had  unwieldy  faggots  in  our  arms  and 
so  walked  closely  together  down  the  hill,  sup- 
porting one  another's  wood. 

"It  is  expedient  that  one  man  should  die 
for  the  people  once  more,"  said  the  poet. 

We  made  up  a  good  fire;  we  boiled  a  pot 
of  coffee  and  fried  a  heap  of  beans  and  stewed 
a  cup  of  apricots  and  cut  the  bread  and  untied 
the  sugar-bag  and  exposed  the  dried  raisins, 
of  which  we  had  a  capacious  little  sack-full  and 
wrapped  ourselves  round  and  sat  by  the  fire 
and  fed  and  talked — 

"Springfield  was  just  about  to  attract  the 
attention  of  the  world  in  a  special  way,  as  the 
shrine  of  Lincoln,  when  that  riot  broke  out," 
said  Vachel.  "Large  schemes  had  been  ap- 
proved for  the  improvement  of  the  city.  All 
promised  well.  Then  suddenly  this  race-riot 
broke  out,    and   Springfield  was  the   subject  of 


THE  STAR  OF  SPRINGFIELD     209 

cartoons  all  over  the  United  States.  The 
finger  of  scorn  was  pointed  at  Lincoln's  city. 
Springfield  is  still  trying  to  live  it  down." 

I  confessed  it  was  difficult  to  think  of 
Springfield  as  an  American  Bethlehem  after 
it  had  been  the  scene  of  a  race-riot.  That 
was  indeed  a  smudge  on  its  fair  name.  Quiet 
little  Bethlehem  in  Palestine  has  at  least  kept 
clear  of  that.  Still  even  Bethlehem  could  not 
help  it  if  some  ugly  human  doings  occurred 
there. 

It  was  curious  that  the  race-riot  sprang  from 
the  "poor  Whites,"  and  yet  from  the  same  poor 
Whites  Vachel  was  ready  to  find  ten  who  would 
die  for  the  Flag. 

I  told  my  thought  then,  and  that  was,  that 
the  poor  white  population,  heroic  as  it  was, 
would  not  be  deterred  by  the  self-sacrifice  of 
one  of  their  number  for  the  sake  of  the  Blacks. 
This  very  year  an  English  clergyman  was 
stripped  and  beaten  almost  to  death  by  a  gang 
of  Whites  in  Florida,  just  because  he  asked  a 
congregation  for  fair  play  for  the  Negro.  And 
nothing  happened  to  the  gang.  No  prosecu- 
tions followed.  Lynch  is  powerful  when  law 
is  weak. 


210      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

"The  social  conscience  is  dull,"  said  the 
poet  sadly.  "The  Negro  question  is  the  one 
which  has  most  plagued  America,  and  most 
people  have  given  it  up  and  decided  not  to 
fret  their  brains  any  more  about  it.  You  see, 
we  even  fought  a  war  for  it  once,  and  we're 
always  quarrelling  about  it.  A  news  paragraph 
about  a  man  being  burned  by  a  mob  will  not 
even  catch  the  notice  of  the  newspaper  reader. 
It  either  does  not  stir  his  imagination,  or  he 
refuses  to  think  about  it." 

"But  it  brings  America  into  disrespect  in 
Europe.  It  takes  away  from  the  force  of  her 
moral  example,"  said  I. 

Lindsay  knew  that.  We  discussed  then  the 
daring  appeal  of  Governor  Dorsey  of  Georgia 
to  the  people  of  that  State  to  mend  their 
ways.  We  discussed  South  Africa  and  then 
India. 

And  then  we  went  for  more  wood,  and  the 
stars  shone  out  above  us,  peerless  in  their 
righteousness,  rolling  along  deliberately  as  ever 
on  their  fixed  ways.  "How  brightly  they  shine 
on  us,"  said  I.  "We  should  be  as  they.  If 
they  erred  and  strayed  from  their  ways  as  we 
do,  what  a  mad  universe  'twould  be." 


THE  STAR  OF  SPRINGFIELD     211 

"And  one  of  them,"  said  the  poet,  "is  the 
star  of  Bethlehem,  the  star  that  rested  over 
Bethlehem  and  then  rested  over  Springfield 
for  a  while." 

"Up  here  in  the  mountains  we  see  the 
stars,  but  down  there  in  the  forests  and  dark 
valleys  it  is  not  so  easy,"  said  I. 

We  talked  of  Springfield  by  the  fire-light 
till  one  of  us  fell  asleep.  One  picture  remains 
in  my  mind,  and  that  is  of  a  Hindu  who  sought 
out  Vachel  Lindsay  after  he  had  been  to 
Abraham  Lincoln's  home.  "Show  me  now 
the  home  of  the  poet  who  lives  among  you," 
said  the  Hindu. 


iiz       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 


A  Hindu  came  to  Springfield, 
He  saw  the  home  of  Lincoln, 
He  saw  the  court  of  Lincoln, 
He  saw  the  streets  he  trod. 
"Now  show  me,"  quoth  the  Hindu, 
Show  me  your  poet  Lindsay, 
Show  me  your  prophet  Lindsay, 
Who  sings  to-day  to  God. 

The  guide  to  Fifth  Street  therefore  led 
And  showed  the  house  where  Lindsay  fed. 
And  the  Hindu  much  rejoiced  and  said: 
"I  know  that  Springfield  is  not  dead. 


>} 


GOOD  DAY   tt*  PRESIDENT 


XXXIII.  FLAT  TOP  MOUNTAIN 


The  fire  burned  sulkily  at  dawn,  and  the  grass 
around  it  was  white  with  frost.  We  had  lain 
awake  for  an  hour,  silently  meditating  on  the 
joys  of  coffee  to  be.  We  knew  it  was  no  use 
getting  up  before  sunrise,  for  fuel  was  scarce 
and  hard  to  find.  It  was  a  wonderful  dreamy 
dawn,  rising  above  the  mists  of  an  autumnal 
night.  We  looked  to  see  antelopes  perched  on 
the  crags  above  us,  and  mountain-goats.  But 
the   scene   was   bare   on   all    hands.      Our   eyes 

213. 


214      TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

lighted  on  the  rusty  foliage  of  some  uprooted 
trees.  Walking  in  our  unlaced  boots,  we 
brought  this  dead  wood  in,  made  a  fine  blaze, 
and  had  breakfast,  and  then  curled  ourselves 
up  by  the  fire  and  slept  till  the  sun  stood 
higher.  If  I  woke  first  it  was  to  sit  with  a 
blanket  about  my  shoulders  and  pen  an  article 
for  Kit  Morley.  It  commonly  happened  that 
I  sat  by  the  fire  and  scribbled  my  letters  to  the 
Post  in  the  morning  whilst  the  poet  had  an 
extra  hour  asleep. 

When  we  resumed  our  climb  the  poet  got 
talking  of  the  Indians.  Curiously  enough 
Flat  Top  Mountain  marks  the  entrance  to 
the  country  of  the  Flat-Heads,  the  Flat-Heads 
being  so  called  because  they  press  their  babies' 
heads  to  obtain  a  flat-headed  type  of  beauty. 
The  mountain  has  imitated  the  Indians  and 
grown  up  flat-headed  too.  We  were  presently 
to  meet,  when  we  crossed  the  Canadian  line, 
a  considerable  number  of  Indians  of  various 
tribes.  Vachel  facetiously  observed  that  he 
wouldn't  mind  taking  an  Indian  bride  if  he 
could  find  one  that  walked  thirty-five  miles  a 
day  and  took  a  bath  every  morning.  I  held 
that   it   was   very   snobbish   on    his   part.      The 


FLAT  TOP  MOUNTAIN  215 

disqualifying  point,  however,  proved  to  be  the 
chewing  of  tobacco.  When  the  poet  saw  these 
young  Amazons  rolling  their  quids  he  was 
confirmed  in  bachelordom. 

"Great  people,  the  Indians,"  said  Vachel. 
"I  was  brought  up  on  their  orations.  So  was 
mother,  I  believe.  Did  you  ever  see  M'Gaffey's 
reader  with  Black  Hawk's  'Oration'  and  the 
'Defence  of  Spartacus,'  and  other  wonderful 
studies  in  popular  oratory?  I  wouldn't  mind 
voting  for  an  Indian  to  be  President  of  the 
United  States." 

"What!  A  red  Indian?  I  should  have 
thought  America  was  too  prejudiced  against 
colour." 

"Not  against  the  Indians.  Against  the 
Negroes.  You  and  I  don't  think  a  Negro  could 
rise  to  Presidency.  But  an  Indian  is  different. 
There  is  a  great  romance  connected  with  the 
Indians;  there  are  the  traditions  of  the  battles 
with  them;  there  is  the  personal  grandeur  of 
the  braves.  Every  American  boy  has  longed 
to  be  an  Indian  chief.  And  then  there  is  the 
strain  of  Pocahontas,  the  Indian  princess, 
married  into  the  pride  of  Virginia.  I  believe 
an   Indian   President  is   just   what  we   want   to 


216      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

root  us  in  America  and  give  us  a  genuine 
American  inspiration.  It  would  bring  poetry 
into  politics.  It  would  bring  all  the  glamour 
of  the  West." 

"But  it  is  not  a  practical  possibility,"  I 
urged. 

"I  believe  it  could  be  put  over,"  said  the 
poet.  "You  see,  the  Indians  are  a  hunting 
people,  a  sporting  people.  They've  refused  to 
bow  the  knee  to  the  sordid  side  of  life." 

We  agreed  that  they  were  such  good  hunters 
that  it  was  in  vain  the  United  States  Govern- 
ment protected  game  in  these  parts.  The 
Flat-Heads  seemed  to  have  swept  off  every- 
thing. You  may  go  for  days  and  see  nothing 
more  edible  than  marmots  and  porcupines.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  have  heard  it  said  that  the 
animals  know  the  difference  between  the  reser- 
vations of  the  Indians  and  the  preserved  regions 
of  the  Rockies,  and  at  sight  of  an  Indian  on 
the  horizon  they  rush  to  safety. 

Lindsay  recounted  to  me  the  story  of  the 
political  campaigns  of  "Tippecanoe  and 
Tyler  too !"  and  how  the  wild  tokens  of 
Western  life  invaded  the  East  and  moved  the 
imagination  of  America.     Every  American  poli- 


FLAT  TOP  MOUNTAI  N  217 

tician  is  aware  of  this  motive  force.  Even 
Roosevelt,  a  pure  New  Yorker,  played  the 
Western  game — as  Colonel  of  the  Rough 
Riders. 

We  had  a  wonderful  walk  along  the  Flat 
Top,  which  was  a  prolonged  mountain  meadow 
full  of  flowers.  Vachel  began  to  repine  because 
he  foresaw  that,  like  everything  else,  our  tramp 
must  end,  and  that  in  a  few  weeks  we  should 
be  back  in  Springfield  and  the  mere  town.  I 
told  him  a  story  of  how  one  summer  day  in 
Petrograd  I  paused  at  a  fruiterer's  shop  to  buy 
some  strawberries  which  looked  very  inviting. 
They  were  very  dear,  but  the  shopkeeper  said, 
"I  have  some  very  good  second  quality  straw- 
berries inside  the  shop,  and  I  strongly  recom- 
mend them."  "Thanks,"  said  I.  "But  I 
never  buy  second  quality  strawberries."  "So 
in  life,  eh  Vachel,  let  us  never  accept  second 
quality  strawberries." 

The  poet  laughed,  and  began  talking  of 
grades  of  eggs,  new-laid  eggs,  State  eggs, 
selected  eggs,  political  eggs.  So  walking 
gently  we  reached  the  north-western  extremity 
of  the  tableland  and  came  upon  a  grandiose 
diversified  scene  of  shadows  and  gloomy  greens 


2i8       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

and  barren  scarps,  and  of  crowned  monarchs 
of  ice  and  snow.  The  pines  of  the  Canadian 
approach  were  posted  like  companies  of  soldiers 
and  disposed  in  beleaguering  armies  as  if  the 
line,  unguarded  by  men,  was  guarded  by  trees, 
the  forest  wardens  of  the  Empire  and  the 
Republic.  The  poet  saw  in  the  scene  another 
Turner  engraving. 

We  plunged  then  downward  through  thick 
masses  of  alder  and  hazel,  a  whole  mountain- 
side solid  with  low  growth.  Here  also  were 
thousands  of  raspberry  bushes  all  agleam  with 
rosy  fruits.  Vachel  called  the  descent  a  "rasp- 
berry epic."  Down,  down  we  plunged  to  the 
dark  valley  of  the  rushing  Kootenai,  only  find- 
ing a  camping  ground  after  dark. 

We  came  to  an  aged  river  in  a  steep  vale  of 
years  with  old  shaggy  firs  on  its  very  water 
edge,  and  with  the  ruins  of  the  uncontrollable 
ever-encroaching  forest  piled  up  like  walls.  We 
lighted  a  fire  on  a  humpy-bumpy  bit  of  shore 
where  it  was  hard  either  to  walk  or  sit,  but 
easy  to  find  wood  to  burn.  We  each  cleared 
ourselves  a  cradle  in  the  brown  needles  of  the 
infringing  firs. 

It  was  a  magnificent  enclosure  which  the  old 


FLAT  TOP  MOUNTAIN  219 

river  was  a-running  through,  like  a  cypress- 
walled  garden  of  an  Asiatic  mountain-castle. 
The  trees  stood  like  gigantic  janissaries  or 
guardsmen  with  their  cloaks  on.  The  night- 
stars  were  exalted  by  the  climbing  forest  and 
peeped  but  faintly  into  the  depths,  and  like  a 
mighty  black  bastion  the  sheer  rock  of  the 
mountain  cut  off  the  view  northward. 

The  fire  flared,  the  hot  stones  cracked  and 
burst.  We  put  our  hot  blankets  around  us  and 
sprawled  on  them  whilst  the  poet  cooked  the 
ham  and  the  beans,  and  I  tended  the  coffee- 
pot or  stripped  the  last  wisps  of  grease-paper 
from  the  butter. 

We  slept  in  our  cradles  and  wakened  in  the 
morning  to  see  the  beavers  jumping  among  the 
fallen  timber  and  diving  in  the  river. 


f  ft 


220      TRAMPING  WITH  A   POET 


A  prairie  resident, 

A  dweller  in  a  tent, 

A  White  House  resident, 

A  good  man  for  President! 

To  White  House  from  white  tent, 

O  excellent  precedent! 

A  precedent  for  a  President. 

An  unprecedented  President! 


a  /  . 

S4  40  | 

AM6W( 


V/eve    seer^j/auf*  Unc   of    cuPF&rcnoe    and 
vneA^ecL    tt    with.  Indifference . 


XXXIV.  CROSSING  THE 
CANADIAN  LINE 

"As  we  approach  the  British  Empire,"  says 
Vachel  facetiously,  "the  huckelberries  grow 
more  plentiful,  the  raspberry-bushes  larger,  the 
trees  loftier,  the  air  purer."  In  the  poet's  mind 
politics  and  hymns  gave  way  to  desire  of  huckle- 
berries. I  luxuriated  in  raspberries.  He  was 
Huckleberry  Finn.  I  was  a  character  in  Russian 
folk-lore — the  hare  with  the  raspberry-coloured 
whiskers.  "When  we  get  to  a  Canadian  hotel 
let  us  register  as  H.  Finn  and  R.  C.  W.  Hare," 
said  the  poet. 

We  had  slept   on  the   hoar-frosted  grass   of 

221 


222      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

mountain     meadows     near     the     sky;     we     had 
slept   among  the   beavers    on   the   banks   of   the 
Kootenai;    we    tramped    in   the    radiant    upper 
air;  we  tramped  in  the  gloom  of  ancient  forests. 
Mount  Cleveland  lifted  its  dome  of  snow  high 
o'er  the  lesser  mountains.      Trapper   Mountain 
receded.     We  listened  one  night  to  the  coyotes 
caterwauling   in   their  loneliness.       Their   super- 
fluous    lugubrious     laments     reminded     me     of 
modern     West     of     Ireland     poetry.        Vachel 
laughed    at    the    comparison.     We    came    to    a 
deserted  cabin,  once  the  habitation  of  a  ranger, 
now   littered   with   Alberta   whisky   bottles,    and 
here  we  read  a  pencilled  remark  written  years 
ago:      "Slept    here    last    night.      Visited    by    a 
bare  who  came  into  cabin   and  et  two   sides  of 
bacon."      Another    pencilled    notice,    apparently 
by  the   same   hand,   said:      "Don't  leave   garbig 
lying    about   but    put    it    in    the    Garbig    Holl." 
An   Indian   came   and  offered   to   lead  us   to   a 
boat   on  Lake   Waterton   and   give   us   a    ferry 
to    Canada.      We    preferred    to    walk,    but    it 
occurred  to  me  afterwards  that  he  was  not  so 
much    interested    in    boating    as    in    bottles.      I 
don't    doubt    he    could    have    got    us    a    drink. 
Then    a    grand    mounted    party    came    past    us 


THE    CANADIAN    LINE  223 

with  guides  and  pack-horses,  coming  from  over 
Brown  Pass,  going  over  Indian  Pass.  This 
was  a  rich  American  family  on  holiday:  here 
were  father  and  mother,  grown  children,  young 
children,  cousins,  and  in  the  midst  of  them 
Aunt  Jemima,  looking  very  proud  and  stiff, 
with  an  expression  on  her  face  which  signified 
"Never  again!"  They  had  been  twenty-eight 
days  in  the  mountains,  camping  out  all  the 
time. 

Vachel's  ankle  was  rather  weak,  and  he  much 
preferred  sitting  to  walking.  He  called  himself 
"the  slow  train  through  Arkansas."  We  stopped 
at  stations,  half-stations,  and  halts.  UA11  I  lack, 
Stephen,  is  steam,"  said  he.  But  every  now 
and  then  he  would  take  courage  and  say,  "Lots 
of  walk  in  me   to-day — Canada   to-night !" 

The  excitement  of  finding  the  "Canadian 
Line"  cheered  my  companion.  The  face 
which  in  the  morning  had  looked  contrite  and 
penitent  as  that  of  one  just  released  from  jail, 
lighted  up  with  new  mirth  and  facetious  intent. 
He  began  to  get  steam.  The  slow  train  from 
Arkansas  began  to  approach  Kentucky,  and 
the    sign    of    steam    was    a    return    to    political 


224      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

conversation.  He  began  to  chaff  me  merci- 
lessly on  the  subject  of  the  Empire  and  King 
George  and  the  British  lion.  I  chaffed  him 
about  "God's  own  country."  The  poet  identi- 
fied America  with  all  that  was  best  in  America's 
traditions  and  in  the  visions  of  her  poets,   the 

All  I  could  never  be, 
All  men  ignored  in  me, 

of  his  native  country.  I  was  critical,  for  I 
bore  in  my  mind  the  growth  of  materialism, 
the  corruption  of  the  law,  the  lynchings  of  the 
Negroes,  and  the  rest.  He  wanted  me  to 
dissociate  America  from  the  dollar,  from  the 
noisy  business  rampage,  and  from  all  that 
was  unworthy,  and  instead  identify  America 
with  the  dreams  of  her  idealists. 

"That  is  what  I  did  with  Russia,"  said  I. 
"If  I  tell  England  of  the  ideal  America  they'll 
only  call  me  a  mystic.  But  you,  Vachel,"  I 
continued,  "try  and  think  of  the  Empire  that 
way." 

He  found  it  difficult.  He  could  think 
creatively  about  his  own  country,  but  where 
others  were  concerned  he  reverted  to  the 
normal  critical  mind. 


THE    CANADIAN    LINE  225 

It  is  almost  a  recognised  convention  in  litera- 
ture. If  you  are  writing  about  a  foreign 
country  you  take  the  general  average  of  what 
you  observe  and  describe  that.  You  can  attack 
lustily  without  fear  that  the  magazine  will  lose 
"advertising."  The  writer  on  Russia  was 
supposed  to  bring  home  a  report  that  the 
police,  and  indeed  every  one  else,  took  bribes, 
the  Jews  were  persecuted,  the  prisoners  in 
Siberia  were  chained  together.  Most  American 
writers  on  Russia  have  done  it.  Kennan  is  a 
characteristic  case,  who  obtained  fame  identify- 
ing Russia  with  prison  horrors  without  recalling 
to  the  minds  of  his  readers  that  there  are 
dreadful  prisons  also  in  the  United  States, 
and  that  the  silence  of  his  own  Georgia  is 
sometimes  desecrated  by  the  melancholy  clank- 
clank  of  the  chain-gang. 

I  was  besought  in  19 17,  by  a  leading 
magazine  of  America,  to  write  an  account  of 
Rasputin,  and  although  I  had  many  interest- 
ing stories  of  that  evil  genius  of  Russia  I 
refused  to  write  what  I  considered  would  at 
that  time  be  damaging  to  Russia.  On  the 
other  hand,  I  wrote  in  19 19  a  realistic  vision 
of    America    in    perhaps    her    saddest    post-war 


226      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

moment,  when  Wilson  was  down  and  no  one 
knew  what  America  was  going  to  do  next, 
and  offered  it  to  the  same  journal.  But  the 
editor  was  quite  hurt  that  I  did  not  then  see 
America  in  roseate  hues.  How  characteristic 
of  this  sprightly  world,  which,  as  Latimer  said, 
"was  begotten  of  Envy  and  put  out  at  Discord 
for  nurse!" 

Not  that  the  poet  was  critical  of  England. 
He  idealised  England.  He  was  not  as  critical 
of  England  as  I  was  of  America.  Whilst 
he  idealised  America  creatively  he  idealised 
England  romantically.  To  him  America  was 
something  to  be;  to  him  England  was  some- 
thing that  forever  was — beautiful,  the  substance 
of  poetry,  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen. 
He  did  not  sympathise  with  the  Irish.  He 
did  not  think  England  was  so  well  organised, 
commercially,  as  America.  But  then  to  him 
that  was  a  point  in  our  favour.  Only  one 
point  was  registered  against  us — he  did  not 
think  that  as  a  nation  we  could  make  coffee; 
and  we  lagged  behind  on  Prohibition.  But 
then  he  had  to  admit  that  the  Americans  for 
their  part  did  not  know  how  to  make  tea. 

"Except    for    the    King,"    said    Vachel,    "we 


THE  CANADIAN  LINE  227 

are  much  the  same  people."  He  loathed  kings. 
"There's  not  much  difference  between  Canada 
and  the  United  States,"  he  went  on. 

"We'll  see,"  I  answered.  "Canadians  are 
subjects  of  a  monarch;  Americans  are  citizens 
of  a  Republic.  Canadians  look  to  the  King. 
More  than  a  mere  line  divides  the  two  halves 
of  North  America.     You'll  see." 

So  we  tramped  on.  We  had  a  last  lunch 
and  finished  the  ham,  the  apricots,  and  the 
coffee.  As  one  remarkable  fact,  we  met  no 
Canadians  on  the  American  side;  we  met  no 
Americans  going  to  Canada  either.  Yet  there 
were  no  restrictions  whatever.  Out  in  the 
Rockies  the  unguarded  line  is  literally  un- 
guarded; no  patrols,  no  excise  or  passport 
officers.  You  can  come  and  go  as  you  please. 
The  United  States  would  encourage  Canada 
to  a  communion  of  perfect  freedom.  Whilst 
America  puts  nothing  in  Canada's  way,  Canada 
for  her  part  could  not  afford  to  police  a  4000- 
mile  line.    All  is  therefore  free. 

Still,  it  is  clearly  the  wild  animals  that  take 
advantage  of  freedom,  and  they  abound  and 
are  happy  in  the  region  about  the  line.  It  is 
a    very   strange    line,  straight    and    absolute    on 


228       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

the  map,  the  essence  of  political  division,  an 
absurdity  in  geography.  There  is  no  river, 
no  main  mountain-range,  no  change  of  the 
colour  of  the  soil,  but  only  the  invisible  hypo- 
thesis called  54.40 — the  "Fifty-four  Forty  or 
fight"  of  the  boundary  dispute.  It  would  have 
been  difficult  to  find  the  line  but  for  the  fact 
that  a  sixteen-foot  swathe  has  been  cut  in  the 
forest.  We  had  been  told  to  look  out  for  that. 
We  found  it  at  last,  and  it  was  afternoon,  and 
we  stood  in  No-man's  land  together. 

It  was  a  curious  cut,  a  rough  glade,  an  alley 
through  the  tall  pines.  We  walked  along  it 
a  short  way;  we  discerned  where  it  stretched 
far  over  a  mountain-side,  a  mere  marking  in 
the  uniform  green  of  the  forest-roof.  We  came 
down  to  where  the  lake  water  was  lapping  on 
the  shore,  and  the  great  mountains  in  their 
fastnesses  stood  about  us.  We  found  frontier- 
post  No.  276,  and  then  I  stood  on  the  Canada 
side  and  Vachel  Lindsay  stood  on  the  America 
side,  and  we  put  our  wrists  on  the  top  of  the 
post.  As  we  two  had  become  friends  and 
learned  to  live  together  without  quarrelling, 
so  might  our  nations!  It  was  a  happy  moment 
in  our  tramping. 


THE    CANADIAN    LINE  229 

Then,  as  it  was  four  in  the  afternoon,  I 
proposed  having  tea,  much  to  the  mirth  of  the 
poet.  For  had  we  not  finished  the  last  of 
our  coffee  at  our  last  American  resting-place? 
Fittingly  we  began  on  tea  when  we  entered 
the  Empire. 

There  was  a  change  of  scenery;  fresher  air, 
aspen  groves,  red  hips  on  many  briars.  A 
beautiful  mountain  lifted  its  citadelled  peak 
into  a  grey  unearthly  radiance.  We  climbed 
Mount  Bertha,  and  the  hillsides  were  massed 
with  young  slender  pines  that  never  grow 
hoary  or  old,  but  die  whilst  they  are  young, 
and  are  supplanted  by  the  ever-new — forests 
of  everlasting  youth.  The  grandeur  of  the 
mountains  increased  upon  us  till  all  was  in 
the  sublimity  of  the  Book  of  Job  and  of  the 
Chaldean  stars.  There  was  nothing  petty 
anywhere — but  an  eternal  witness  and  an 
eternal  silence. 


«4r 


230      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

A  Yank  and  a  Britisher  walked  to  the  line, 
One  was  a  citizen,  the  other  an  alien. 
"You  alien/"  said  the  Yank. 

The  Yank  and  the  Britisher  crossed  o'er  the  line, 
One  was  a  subject,  the  other  an  alien. 
"You  alien!"  said  the  Britisher. 

But  when  Yank  and  Briton  elapsed  hands  on  the 

line, 
Then  neither  the  Yank  nor  the  Briton  was  alien. 

Hail,  Uncle  Sam! 
Hail,  John  Bull! 

We've  found  your  line  of  difference 
And  viewed  it  with  indifference. 

You  don't  need  to  guard  it, 

Nor  yet  to  regard  it 

With  doubt  or  with  fret. 

Six  weeks  we've  tramped  together 

In  every  sort  of  weather, 

And  haven't  quarrelled  yet. 

We  toe  the  line,  we  toe  it, 

The  old  tramp  and  the  poet. 

If  we  can  do  it. 

And  not  rue  it, 

All  can — says  the  poet. 


WELLINCTONIA 


WASHINCTONIA 


HINDEN&UPXER 


XXXV.  THE  DIFFERENCE 


So  we  entered  the  Dominion  National  Park 
of  Waterton  Lakes.  We  climbed  the  next 
mountain  after  Mount  Bertha  and  saw  on  every 
hand  the  pinnacled  and  pillared  tops  of  the 
Canadian  mountains,  crags  surmounted  by 
mighty  teeth  of  stone  blackly  silhouetted  against 
a  radiant  sky.  Some  Dominion  officials  came 
into  these  parts  last  year,  cancelled  the  old 
names  of  the  mountains,  and  gave  them  a  new 
set — Mount  Joffre,   Mount  Foch,   and  the  rest, 

231 


232       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

as  if  they  were  No.  i  and  No.  2  of  Great  War 
villas.  I  see  by  old  maps  that  Mount  Cleveland 
used  to  be  called  Kaiser  Peak.  How  war 
changes  the  names  of  places!  It  changed  St. 
Petersburg  to  Petrograd,  Pressburg  to  Bratislavl; 
it  has  even  changed  the  names  of  the  Rocky 
Mountains. 

"Luckily  the  Germans  did  not  win,"  I  said 
to  Vachel,  "or  New  York  might  have  become 
'Zeppelindorf.'  " 

We  were  walking  down  a  slope  which  Nature 
had  planted  out  with  pompous  trees  called 
"Wellingtonias." 

"What   do   you   call   them?"    asked   the   poet. 

"Wellingtonias." 

"Not   in  America.     We   call   them   'Washing- 


tonias.'  " 


"You  forget  you've  crossed  the  line — 
Washingtonias  this  morning,  but  Wellingtonias 
this  afternoon." 

The  poet  submitted. 

"But  what  would  the  Germans  have  called 
them?" 

"Perhaps  they'd  call  them  'Bluchers'  or  'Hin- 
denburgers.'  " 

Apropos   of   Bluchers — in   the    first   Canadian 


THE   DIFFERENCE  233 

village  we  visited  the  cobbler  for  repairs.  He 
was  an  old  man,  and  explained  to  us  just 
exactly  what  "Blucher  shoes"  were.  He  pro- 
nounced the  name  to  rhyme  with  "butcher," 
and  he  called  them  shoes  in  the  American 
fashion.  In  America  boots  are  shoes,  and  shoes 
are  boots. 

"They  call  them  Bluchers,"  said  the  cobbler  in 
a  quavering  voice,  "because  Blucher  came  up  on 
both  sides,  and  Bony  did  not  know  on  which  side 
he'd  turn  up.  So  the  upper  of  the  Bluchers  are 
equally  high  on  both  sides  of  the  shoe." 

That  is,  however,  to  go  some  days  ahead. 
We  are  in  the  Rockies  still,  and  beside  a 
wonderful  stretch  of  water  blown  by  mountain 
winds  into  myriads  of  running  waves.  We 
bathed  on  its  shallow  shores;  we  did  not 
venture  far  from  the  bank.  For  Waterton  is  a 
mysterious  lake.  It  has  often  been  sounded, 
but  there  are  parts  of  it  where  no  bottom  has  been 
found.  It  is  the  hole  out  of  which  these  Rocky 
Mountains  have  been  scooped,  and  it  goes 
down,  down,  down,  to  the  very  depths  of  the 
earth. 

At    last    we    came    to    a  Canadian    camping- 


234      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

ground  and  a  group  of  people  clustered  around  a 
Ford  touring  car.  A  Ford  car  used  for  touring. 
Here  there  happened  to  be  on  holiday  a  professor 
of  English,  and  he  recognised  Lindsay  at  first  sight 
— such  is  the  fame  of  the  poet  in  American  uni- 
versities and  schools. 

This  camping-group  told  us  we  were  in  a 
land  predominantly  inhabited  by  Mennonites, 
Mormons,  and  Dukhobors,  and  they  whetted 
our  curiosity  considerably  regarding  our  new 
neighbours.  We  had  arrived  in  a  part  of 
Canada  which  was  rather  obscure  and  cer- 
tainly little  visited  by  either  Americans  or 
Englishmen. 

We  came  to  a  ramshackle  inn  and  a  village 
and  a  dance-hall,  and  it  was  the  last  dance  of 
the  season.  The  Mormon,  German,  and  Russian 
belles  checked  in  their  corsets  at  the  cloakroom, 
and  prepared  for  fun.  It  was  a  log-cabin  hall, 
but  the  floor  was  waxed,  and  from  the  beams 
hung  coloured-paper  lanterns.  There  were  a 
score  or  so  of  black  bear-skins  hung  on  the 
walls  all  the  way  round.  On  the  bear-skins 
were  white  sashes  with  these  words  printed  on 
them:  /  DO  LOVE  TO  CUDDLE;  and  on  the  main 
beam   of  the   ceiling  was   written:    Patrons   are 


THE   DIFFERENCE  235 

respectfully  requested  to  park  their  gum  outside. 
The  whole  front  of  the  piano  was  taken  out  so 
that  there  should  be  more  noise.  Splotches  on 
the  floor  showed  how  in  the  past,  patrons  had 
surreptitiously  brought  in  their  gum  and  had  ac- 
cidents. Many  couples  assembled,  and  we  saw  the 
human  species,  though  not  at  its  best. 

We  issued  from  the  mountains  on  to  the 
southern  Alberta  plain,  and  then  looking  back, 
saw  every  great  mountain  we  had  ever  crossed. 
"We've  found  the  real  sky-scrapers,"  said 
Vachel.  "Instead  of  the  Times  Building, 
Heaven's  Peak;  instead  of  the  Flatiron,  Flat 
Top  Mountain;  instead  of  the  World  Build- 
ing, Going-to-the-Sun ;  and  instead  of  the 
building  raised  by  dimes,  the  temple  not  made 
by  hands.  The  way  to  these  wonders  is  not 
by  Broadway,  but  by  primitive  trails."  The 
poet  conducted  the  orchestra  of  the  universe 
with  the  long  blossoming  stem  of  a  basket- 
flower — "instead  of  the  Stock  Exchange,  the 
Star  Granary  over  Waterton  Lake,"  he  mur- 
mured. We  named  the  beautiful  grouping  of 
mountains  about  the  lake  as  the  Star  Granary. 
For  at  night,  with  stars  above  and  star-reflections 


236      TRAMPING   WITH    A   POET 

below,    it    was    as    if    the    barns    were    full    of 
Heaven's   harvest. 

We  tramped  away  northward  toward  the 
Crow's  Nest,  where  a  great  forest  fire  was 
raging,  and  we  came  to  the  "cow-town"  of 
Pincer  Creek.  The  Canadian  Wild  West 
seemed  much  wilder  than  the  Wild  West  south 
of  the  line — or  rather,  the  population  seemed 
wilder.  One  missed  the  gentleness  and  play- 
fulness of  the  United  States.  The  men  were 
harder  than  down  south,  and  they  looked  at  us 
with  a  contempt  only  modified  by  the  thought 
that  we  might  be  potential  harvest  hands. 
The  Canadian-English  looked  more  askance 
at  Vachel  than  they  did  at  me.  He  looked 
poetical.  They  couldn't  have  put  a  name  to 
it,  but  that  is  what  it  was.  But  whatever  it 
was,  I  could  feel  their  aversion.  They  dis- 
approved of  tramps,  but  preferred  them  to 
poets.  I  could  see  also  they  didn't  care  for 
Vachel's  accent,  but  they  rejoiced  in  mine  and 
spoke  to  me  just  to  get  me  to  reply  so  that 
they  could  hear  once  more  the  voice  of  the 
Old  Country.  We  were  clearly  in  the  Empire 
and  not  in  the  Republic.  The  Union  Jacks  in 
the  little  log-cabins  were  wreathed  with  flowers. 


THE   DIFFERENCE  237 

The  Stars  and  Stripes  had  disappeared.  We 
were  so  struck  with  the  change  of  feeling  in  the 
air  that  we  bought  ourselves*  a  school-history  of 
Canada  and  read  it  assiduously.  The  very  way 
of  man  looking  to  man  was  different.  Then  the 
first  popular  song  which  sounded  in  our  ears 
was: 

We  never  get  up  until  the  sergeant 
Brings  our  breakfast  up  to  bed. 
O  it's  a  lovely  war! 

which  is  a  purely  British  army  song.  The 
Englishman  in  Alberta  is  an  overman  in  the 
midst  of  a  miscellaneous  foreign  under-popula- 
tion.  The  Englishman's  word  is  law.  He  is 
stronger,  rougher  in  his  language  and  his  ways 
■ — not  educated.  But  this  sort  of  fibre  is  best  suited 
for  the  outposts  of  Empire. 

"We  Americans  are  just  a  bunch  of  playful 
kittens,"  said  Vachel. 

There  was  nothing  very  playful  about  the 
Alberta  pioneers. 

"Did  you  light  that  fire  on  the  side  of  the  road 
a  mile  back?  Well,  you  dam  well  go  back  and 
put  it  out." 

"We  did  put  it  out." 


238       TRAMPING   WITH   A   POET 

"I  tell  ye,  ye  didn't.  I  won't  waste  my 
breath  talking  to  you.  If  you  set  the  prairie  afire 
I'll  have  you  both  in  jail  by  sundown." 

"All  right,  we'll  go  back." 


We're  on  the  same  continent. 

Well,  I  don't  knozv.    Smells  different  somehow. 

Same  air;  people  speak  the  same  language. 

But  I  don't  see  that  bird  about, 

That  old  eagle  of  yours. 

Smells  as  if  a  lion  had  been  here. 

You  don't  know  the  lion's  smellf 

Well,  smell  that  Union  Jack!, 

That's  it. 


XXXVI.     DUKHOBORS 


We  had  not  anticipated  coming  into  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Dukhobors.  It  was  an 
interesting  surprise.  I  had  promised  myself  I 
would  make  a  special  pilgrimage  some  day  to 
Western  Canada  just  to  find  out  what  the 
Dukhobors  thought  about  life,  and  how  they 
were  getting  on  now.  And  then  to  come  on 
them  accidentally. 

The  Dukhobors,  or  "Spirit  wrestlers,"   are  a 
Russian  religious  community  brought  to  Canada 

239 


24o       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

in  1898.  They  claim  to  have  been  in  existence 
in  Russia  for  over  three  hundred  years.  They 
are  primitive  Christians  akin  to  Quakers,  but 
more  uncompromising.  They  are  Communists, 
pacifists,  anti  -  state,  anti  -  church,  anti  -  law. 
Theologically  they  consider  Christ  as  a  good 
man  and  teacher,  but  not  divine.  Tolstoy's 
teachings  show  him  very  close  to  the  Dukhobors 
in  theory.  He  greatly  sympathised  with  them 
in  the  persecution  which  they  suffered  at  the 
hands  of  the  Russian  Government,  and  it  was 
in  part  due  to  him,  and  more  largely  to  the 
Society  of  Friends  in  England,  that  the  ex- 
patriation of  the  Dukhobors  was  accomplished. 
Tolstoy  is  said  to  have  put  aside  the  profits  of 
his  novel  Resurrection  to  defray  in  part  the 
expenses  of  transporting  the  Russians.  There 
are  several  thousand  of  them,  and  first  they 
were  taken  to  Cyprus  where  at  least  the 
British  Navy  got  acquainted  with  them,  as 
they  were  naturally  a  curiosity.  Cyprus  was 
not  suitable,  and  so  Canada  was  chosen  for 
a  habitat.  The  community  was  taken  to 
Saskatchewan,  and  later  migrated  in  large  part 
to  British  Columbia.  They  did  not  find  their 
path    strewn    with    roses    in    Canada,    and    have 


DUKHOBORS  241 

had  a  hard  time.  But  despite  persecution  they 
have  prospered.  They  are  notorious  for  a 
naked  procession  they  once  made  "in  quest  of 
the  Messiah"  some  forty  miles  in  bitter  winter 
weather,  displaying  "the  naked  truth"  to  the 
Canadians — the  pilgrimage  to  Yorktown  which 
has  been  described  with  much  gusto  in  the 
American  and  Canadian  Press.  They  have 
refused  to  take  steps  to  relinquish  their  Russian 
nationality,  refused  to  fight,  refused  to  pay 
taxes.  So  naturally  they  have  been  a  thorn  in 
the  side  of  the  Canadian. 

The  Rocky  Mountains  stretching  away  in 
their  majesty  must  remind  some  Russians  of 
the  grand  array  of  the  Caucasus  as  seen  from 
the  north — and  the  prairie  is  the  steppe.  Far 
away  you  discern  the  white  and  brown  buildings 
of  a  settlement,  and  then,  ten  times  as  large  as 
anything  else,  pale-blue  grain-elevators.  The 
circumambient  moor  is  many  coloured,  and  a 
dove-coloured  sky  is  flecked  with  softest  cloud. 
There  are  snow  fences  at  many  points  of  the 
road  to  protect  from  drifts  in  winter.  A  never- 
ceasing  wind  which  brings  no  rain  is  driving 
over  the  corn-fields.  As  you  approach  the 
village   you  begin   to   see    Russian   peasant  men 


242       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

and  women  working  on  the  fields  hoisting  the 
wheat-sheaves  to  the  harvesting  carts,  hoisting 
the  sheaves  to  the  top  of  the  stacks.  A 
stalwart  peasant-wife  in  cottons  stands  on  top 
of  the  stack,  pitchfork  in  her  hand,  and  she 
catches  the  sheaves  as  they  come  up  to  her. 
The  grain-elevators  rise  mightily  into  vision, 
and  then  the  words  printed  on  them  in  large 
black  letters— THE  CHRISTIAN  COMMUNITY 
OF  UNIVERSAL  BROTHERHOOD. 

I  soon  met  Pavel  Potapof,  the  local  head- 
man, and  I  talked  in  Russian  with  a  number  of 
men  and  women  who  spoke  no  other  language. 
They  were  raising  wheat  for  themselves  and 
for  their  wheatless  brethren  who  live  in  the 
lumbering  camps  and  villages  of  British 
Columbia,  but  represent  a  sort  of  a  half-way 
colony  between  the  original  Verigin,  Saskat- 
chewan, and  the  main  settlement  of  Brilliant, 
British  Columbia. 

Potapof  was  a  boy  at  Cyprus,  where  his 
father  enojyed  some  authority.  He  is  now 
a  man  in  his  thirties  with  brown  moustache 
and  close-clipped  chin.  If  you  are  a  Dukhobor 
you  may  not  shave  but  you  may  clip  with 
the      shears.        He      remembered     touching     a 


DUKHOBORS  243 

Mr.   St.  John  at  Cyprus,   who  used  to  call  him 
Pavlushka. 

Potapof  spoke  Russian  with  a  soft  Little- 
Russian  accent,  all  g's  being  h's.  He  came 
from  Tiflis  province,  and  I  talked  first  of  the 
Caucasus,  comparing  them  with  the  Rockies. 
Then  naturally  we  discussed  Russia,  and  a 
curious  crowd  gathered  about  us.  Scarcely 
any  spoke  English — all  were  Russian  subjects, 
and  I  much  wondered  what  they  thought  of 
the  Bolshevik  revolution.  For  they  also  are 
Communists.  I  soon  learned  that  an  appeal 
had  been  made  to  them  on  behalf  of  the 
Bolsheviks  to  help  to  stem  the  famine  in 
Russia.  Some  of  the  Dukhobors  were  for 
sending  grain,  some  not.  They  blamed  the 
Bolsheviks    for    their    "two    million    men    under 


arms." 


Most  of  them  said:  "Let  those  who  are 
richer  in  Russia  give  to  those  who  are  poorer; 
there'll  be  enough  to  go  round."  Imagination 
did  not  show  them  the  ghastly  ruin  of  con- 
temporary Russia,  where,  except  for  a  handful 
of  Soviet  commissaries,  there  are  no  rich,  no 
'better-off'  people.  Most  of  them  also  said: 
'Let    them    lay    down    their    arms,     and    then 


244       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

we'll  think  of  feeding  them.'  "  But  their  de- 
liberations crystallised  in  the  following  way. 
They  decided  on  a  symbolic  act.  They  visited 
all  their  Ruthenian  and  Galician  neighbours 
and  any  one  who  had  a  war-trophy  to  spare, 
and  they  made  thus  a  collection  of  rifles,  shot- 
guns, pistols — some  three  hundred  or  more 
weapons.  These  they  burned  in  a  heap.  Then 
they  sent  a  wireless  message  to  the  Russian 
people  describing  this  act,  and  added  further 
the  monition:  "Do  likewise;  burn  your  rifles, 
and  return  to  work!" 

"They  murdered  Nikolai  (rubili  Nikolai) 
and  his  family  for  liberty,"  said  Potapof.  "But 
now  clearly  there  is  much  less  liberty  than  ever 
there  was  before." 

Nevertheless  I  thought  I  detected  a  curious 
home-sickness  among  many  of  them.  The 
violent  rumours  and  persistent  bad  news  of 
Russia  comes  to  a  primitive  community  that 
cannot  read  in  a  more  disturbing  and  dramatic 
way  than  through  newspapers.  They  com- 
plained sadly  of  conditions  in  Canada;  ©f 
droughts,  of  plagues  of  grasshoppers,  of  bygone 
hardships  and  persecutions  in  Saskatchewan. 

"Here   there   will  be   a   Bolshevik  revolution 


DUKHOBORS  245 

too,"  said  one.  "We  shall  not  take  part  in  it. 
But  we  know  it  is  preparing.  There  is  much 
discontent  in  the  neighbouring  settlements  and 
in  the  mines.  Oh  yes,  there  is  trouble  brewing 
here  too." 

This  Dukhobor  had  been  talking  to  brother 
Poles  and  Ruthenians,  but  he  was  quite  out  of 
perspective.  I  asked  how  the  Dukhobors  had 
faced  under  the  Conscription  Act.  Apparently 
they  did  not  suffer  much;  Canada  did  not 
trouble  the  Dukhobors.  They  had  an  easier 
time  than  their  brothers  the  Mennonites  in  the 
United  States.  They  told  me  there  had  been 
a  considerable  influx  of  Mennonites  by  way  of 
the  unguarded  line:  they  also  are  pacifists  and 
utterly  oppose  to  personal  service  in  war.  So 
struck  are  they  by  what  happened  to  them  in 
America  through  the  war  that  there  is  much 
talk  of  their  deserting  both  Canada  and  the 
States  and  seeking  a  refuge  in  Mexico. 

The  Dukhobors,  however,  have  a  strong 
hold  in  Canada,  and  as  long  as  Peter  Verigin, 
their  unofficial  patriarch  and  leader,  lives,  they 
will  most  probably  hold  on  to  their  settle- 
ments in  British  Columbia  and  Saskatchewan. 
Perhaps  in  a  new  era,  a  new  Russia  may  again 


246       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

take   the   Dukhobors   to   hercelf.  Canada   does 

not    assimilate  them.      They    do  not    assimilate 

Canada.      And    they    are,    and  they    feel,     as 

Dostoievsky    said,    like    ua    slice  cut    out    of    a 
loaf." 


Fancy  meeting  the  Dukhobors 

Up  in  the  Rockies: 

A  bit  of  old  Russia 

Planted  up  there  to  meet  me! 

Sure  next  time  when  I  go  to  the  Caucasus 

I'll  look  to  find  a  batch  of  English  there, 

Trying  to  live  their  unmolested  lives 

Under  the  free  institutions 

Of  old  Russia. 

Tolstoy,  in  his  story  of  the  old  pilgrim, 

Taught  you  could  find  Jerusalem  in  your  native 

village, 
And  did  not  need  to  pilgrimage  afar. 
But  he  did  not  say  you  could  find  freedom 
In  your  own  village — in  your  own  heart. 
O  no,  that's  political, 
You  must  go  a  long  way  to  find  that. 


WHEKEVEIV    THEY  LOCATt 
THEY     &UILD    TEMPLES 


XXXVII.  A  VISIT  TO 
THE  MORMONS 


We  tramped  from  ranch  to  ranch  by  the  rutty 
roads  that  skirt  the  sections,  walked  away  from 
the  mountain-walls,  and  ever  as  we  went  the 
terrain  extended.  The  sky  had  become  wider; 
no  rocky  walls  closed  us  in.  The  backs  of  our 
necks  became  swollen  from  the  unusual  heat  of 
the  sun  on  them.  We  kicked  up  dust  as  we 
walked,  dust  again!  Our  eyes  traversed  the 
scene  to  light,  not  on  cascades  or  possible 
camping-grounds,  but  on  far-away  farmhouses. 
We  met  the   oats   and  wheat   and  barley  fields 

247 


248       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

striving  over  the  moors,  and  walked  till  all 
moor  disappeared,  till  there  was  nothing  in 
front  of  us  but  gold.  Made  dream-like  by  the 
forest  fires,  the  long  range  of  the  Rockies 
seemed  unreal — the  mountains  which  we  had 
climbed  became  remote  and  shadowy — and  not 
part  of  our  destiny.  Our  only  reality  was 
golden  Alberta,  which  seemed  to  extend  to 
infinitude,  the  plateau  only  gradually  losing  its 
altitude,  unfolding  and  undulating  downward 
— one  vast  resplendent  area  of  golden  harvest 
fields. 

The  sun  gleamed  on  numberless  shocks  on 
the  right,  on  the  left,  and  ahead,  and  the  whole 
horizon  was  massed  with  newly  mobilised  golden 
armies.  We  walked  the  rutty  roads  and  were 
exhilarated,  and  counted  the  wheatfields  which 
we  passed,  knowing  that  each,  being  a  whole 
section,  was  a  whole  mile  long. 

We  discussed  a  tragical  line  in  one  of 
Lindsay's  poems: 

Election  night  at  midnight 
Boy   Bryan's   defeat. 
Defeat  of  Western  silver, 
Defeat  of  the  wheat 

.    .    .    Defeat  of  the  aspen  groves  of  Colorado 
valleys, 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS       249 

The  blue-bells  of  the  Rockies, 
And  blue  bonnets  of  old  Texas 
By  the  Pittsburg  alleys. 

Defeat  of  the  wheat!  How  tragical  that  sounds 
in  the  soul,  how  calamitous  and  appalling!  It 
is  like  the  cutting  off  of  golden  youth,  the 
extinction  of  all  our  dreams. 

We  boiled  our  pot  by  the  side  of  the  road;  we 
sought  milk  and  bread  at  farmhouses;  we  slept 
at  night  in  the  wheat  with  shocks  piled  on 
three  sides  of  us  to  keep  out  the  wind,  and  a 
broken  shock  underneath  us  to  keep  us  soft — 
and  the  night  sky  above  us  was  of  swans'  plum- 
age, and  all  the  golden  stalks  and  stubble  about 
us  and  above  us  were  exaggerated  among  the 
stars. 

Night  was  very  different  on  the  plains  from 
night  in  the  mountains.  No  sound  of  waters, 
no  castellated  peaks  rising  in  the  moonlight,  no 
sense  of  vast  unevenness  and  disjected  rocks; 
but  instead,  a  feeling  of  being  in  a  great 
encampment  where  the  swarming  shocks  of 
wheat  were  tents,  the  tents  of  such  a  host  that 
the  numbers  took  away  one's  breath.  The 
poet  rejoiced.     He  loved  it.     The  odour  of  the 


250      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

yellow  stalks  was  a  new  breath  of  life  to  him — 
for  he  was  a  prairie  boy. 

The  dawn-twilight  was  long  and  quiet,  and 
the  mornings  were  serene.  No  workers  were 
in  sight.  The  disparity  in  numbers  between 
men  and  wheat  was  remarkable  to  my  eyes. 
In  Russia,  the  whole  plain  would  have  been 
alive  with  the  gay  cottons  of  peasant  lads  and 
lasses.  But  here,  harvesting  machinery  dis- 
places whole  populations  of  men  and  women. 

Indians  began  to  be  numerous  on  the  road 
as  we  approached  the  Blood  Reservation,  Indian 
farm-wagons  with  women  and  children  sprawl- 
ing on  the  hay  at  the  bottom,  and  then  Indians 
on  horseback,  all  one  piece  with  their  horses. 
We  left  the  golden  grain  behind  and  crossed 
the  Reserve.  Vachel  explained  what  a  squaw- 
man  is — a  white  who  marries  an  Indian  girl 
in  order  to  get  hold  of  her  portion  of  land,  the 
Indians  of  to-day  being  almost  all  of  them 
endowed  with  land  by  the  Government.  We 
found  again  the  Kootenai,  now  brawling  through 
the  plains,  and  bathed  again,  and  reverted  in 
spirit  to  those  mountains.  Then  we  tramped 
from  tent  to  tent  across  the  green  wilderness 
where  the  Indians  lived.     Indian  boys  in  many- 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS      251 

coloured  garments  pranced  on  their  horses, 
chased  lines  of  cattle  and  horses,  and  kept  the 
lines  straight  by  galloping  incessantly  between 
them  from  left  to  right  to  one  end  of  the  line, 
and  then  right  to  left  to  the  other  end. 

We  met  Indians  in  voluminous  seedy  clothes, 
walking  with  a  stoop;  men  with  gloomy  rumin- 
ating faces  who  tried  to  avoid  contact  with  a 
white  man.  We  talked  to  them;  they  raised 
their  red  romantic  faces  and  glared  at  us  like 
owls  startled  by  light.  They  could  not  speak 
English,  so  they  answered  nothing,  but  just 
turned  out  of  our  way  and  slouched  on.  Or 
the  livelier  ones  made  signs  to  us.  The  stout 
squaws  stared  at  us.  The  slender  girls  on 
their  horses  were  almost  indistinguishable  from 
boys. 

What  a  beaten-down  and  untidy  place  a 
Reservation  is,  strewn  with  jetsam  from  the 
wigwam,  hoofed  till  not  a  flower  remains!  The 
Indians  spend  more  time  on  horseback  than  on 
foot — they  can't  farm,  or  won't  farm,  and 
possess  only  the  roughest  of  comforts.  We 
came  to  a  Government  Practice  Farm  where 
Indians    were    being    taught,    and    saw    squaws 


252      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

working  there — but  very  little  sign  of  decent 
cultivation  on  the  reservations.  The  Indian 
asks  enough  on  which  to  live.  He  wants  no 
more,  will  work  for  no  more.  He  makes  plenti- 
ful use  of  canned  foods,  and  lives  from  hand  to 
mouth.  Hence  you  never  hear  of  Indian 
cooks.  It  is  curious  to  contrast  the  genius  of 
the  negro  for  cooking  and  the  absence  of  a 
taste  for  cooking  in  the  Indians. 

After  the  Indians  we  came  to  the  Mormons. 
They  were  as  much  surprised  as  the  Dukhobors. 
How  should  Mormons  be  here?  Perhaps  we 
are  the  first  to  make  the  discovery  that  the 
Mormons  have  invaded  Canada.  These  are 
the  first  Mormons  to  invite  the  shelter  of  the 
Empire.  As  usual,  they  have  made  their 
settlement  in  a  very  obscure  part,  far  from  the 
centre  of  authority.  And  if  trouble  should  arise 
they  have  only  to  trek  through  the  Rockies, 
and  then  Uncle  Sam  and  Senator  Smoot  will 
protect  them. 

We  were  regaled  at  farmhouses  by  sweet 
Mormon  brides,  who  gave  us  bannocks,  who 
gave  us  of  their  simmering  greengages  out  of 
the    great   cauldron    on    the    stove.      Elders    on 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS       253 

horseback  very  politely,  and  with  many  details, 
showed  us  the  way  to  Cardston  and  the  Mormon 
Temple.  We  were  happily  and  sympathetically 
disposed  towards  the  Mormons,  and  Vachel, 
who  ha:  taught  the  Salt-Lake-City  girls  to 
dance  whilst  he  chanted  to  them  "The  Queen 
of  Sheba,"  has  a  soft  spot  in  his  heart  for  the 
sect.  It  was  really  started  by  a  renegade 
preacher  from  his  own  sect  of  Disciples,  Sidney 
Rigdon,  who  revised  the  unsaleable  manuscript 
of  a  novel  called  The  Book  of  Mormon.  He 
conspired  with  Joseph  Smith,  who  discovered 
the  book  written  in  aboriginal  American  hiero- 
glyphics on  gold  plates  and  translated  it  by  the 
aid  of  certain  miraculous  spectacles  into  King's 
English,  or  I  should  say  President's  English, 
who  was  murdered;  who  therefore  gave  way  to 
Brigham  Young,  to  whom  were  revealed  many 
mysteries. 

"They  are  a  whole  lot  nearer  to  Mahomet- 
anism  than  to  Christianity,"  said  Vachel.  "I 
think  a  Mahometan  mission  to  the  Mormons 
might  not  be  a  bad  idea  as  a  step  on  the  road 
towards   Christianity." 

We  sat  discussing  this  on  the  banks  of  the 
Kootenai,  and  I  was  facetious: 


254        TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

"Ye  Mormons,  there  is  no  god  but  God,  and 
Mahomet  is  His  prophet.  Whereas  in  Christ 
ye  are  now  living  in  adultery  and  sin,  in 
Mahomet  ye  are  pure  men  and  women.  By 
Christ,  in  the  after-life  there  is  neither  marriage 
nor  giving  in  marriage,  but  in  Mahomet 
connubial  bliss  for  evermore,  attended  by  your 
houris  and  your  wives.  Don't  say  no.  Think 
it  over  and  I'll  call  this  afternoon!" 

"Put  that  in"  said  Vachel.  "I  think  they've 
derived  a  good  deal  from  the  phallic  religions 
too.  They've  made  a  much  bigger  thing  of 
Mormonism  than  it  was  in  the  days  of  Joseph 
Smith.  It  has  got  hold  of  the  sex  mysteries. 
There's  a  whole  lot  of  masonry  in  it.  The 
common  sort  of  condemnation  of  the  Mormons 
is  all  that's  ever  been  attempted  by  way  of 
criticism  of  them.  They've  been  stoned  out  of 
all  the  Middle  West.  We  have  even  in  Spring- 
field in-  the  Fair-grounds  one  of  their  altars 
taken  from  Nauvoo,  Illinois,  from  which  they 
were  chased.  They  were  a  mistaken  people — 
but  they  learned  much  through  tribulation." 

The  poet  is  by  temperament  on  the  side  of 
any  one  or  any  institution  which  happens  to  be 
violently   attacked.      He   was    greatly   interested 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS       255 

by  Mormonism,  so  I  naturally  heard  from  him 
many  things  in  favour  of  it.  First  of  all,  he 
felt  it  had  a  great  future  in  America — it  was 
not  a  dying  cult. 

"One  side  of  it  is  getting  very  popular,"  I 
interjected,  with  some  mirth.  "It's  the  word 
of  abuse  in  England  from  an  injured  wife  to 
her  husband — 'You — Mormon!'  " 

Well,  the  idea  of  polygamy  does  make  a 
strong  appeal  to  the  male,"  said  the  poet.  "And 
the  women  feel  happy  in  it  when  it  is  an 
accepted  convention." 

"You  mean,  women  only  object  to  clandestine 
polygamy?" 

"There  is  always  jealousy,"  said  my  com- 
panion. "But  that  is  another  matter.  What 
I  meant  about  the  future  of  Mormonism  did 
not  refer  to  polygamy  so  much.  But  it's  our 
first  real  American  religion  It  started  in 
America.  It  pretends  to  give  American  religious 
traditions.  According  to  Mormon,  one  of  the 
lost  tribes  of  Israel  came  to  South  America. 
Mormonism  links  America  to  both  Noah  and 
Adam  and  to  the  hand  of  God.  In  their  belief, 
too,  Christ  came  to  America — He  did  not  wait 
till  1492  for  Columbus  to  discover  it  first.     He 


256      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

was  here  before  Columbus.  In  Mormonism 
America  is  presented  with  a  whole  American 
tradition,  going  as  far  back  as  the  Old  World 
traditions,  embodied  in  the  Old  and  New 
Testaments." 

Cardston,  which  at  length  we  reached,  is 
largely  a  Mormon  city.  The  Temple,  a  re- 
markable structure,  exteriorily  chaste  and  beau- 
tiful, dominates  the  scene,  and  the  clouds  rest 
upon  it,  obscuring  its  upper  storeys  in  cloudy 
weather.  It  is  not  used  for  general  worship; 
for  that  purpose  there  is  a  sufficiently  ugly 
tabernacle.  It  is  almost  exclusively  for  the 
Mormon  sacraments,  the  sealing  of  wives  and 
children,  and  for  the  meditational  recreation  of 
the  elders.  Once  the  building  has  been  com- 
pleted and  consecrated  it  will  remain  inaccess- 
ible to  outsiders,  but  in  order  to  avert  suspicion, 
visitors  are  shown  over  it  until  that  time.  We 
were  lucky,  as  the  Temple  is  very  nearly 
finished,  and  it  is  a  rare  experience  for  an 
outsider  to  gain  access.  There  are  only  eight 
Mormon  Temples  in  the  world,  and  the  rites 
performed  therein  are  entirely  secret. 

The  town  is   mostly   inhabited  by   Mormons, 


A  VISIT    TO     THE     MORMONS  257 

and  the  great  business  "pull"  of  the  sect  is 
evidenced  in  the  technical  and  structural  growth 
of  the  place.  The  land  between  the  city  and 
the  reservations  is  theirs,  and  also  much  that 
lies  beyond.  A  strong  propaganda  for  the  sect 
is  carried  on  all  over  America,  and  also  in 
England  and  in  Europe.  Women  converts 
seem  especially  desired.  On  the  other  hand, 
men  of  proved  sincerity  or  simplicity  are  not 
rejected.  The  Mormons  have  land  at  their 
disposal,  and  they  exert  considerable  influence 
on  settlers  and  pioneers  of  the  West.  The 
elders  help  to  organise  business  and  to  mor- 
monise  the  community  as  much  as  possible. 
They  can  be  of  great  help  to  any  young 
Mormon  starting  life.  On  the  other  hand 
strange  dooms  are  said  to  await  any  Mormons 
who  give  away  their  secrets,  and  apostasy  is 
infrequent. 

Some  of  them  are,  however,  incautious.  In  my 
room  at  the  hotel  I  found  a  heap  of  correspond- 
ence left  there  by  the  last  man  who  had  been  in 
occupation.  It  was  perhaps  indelicate  to  pry 
into  a  Mormon's  private  affairs,  but  I  confess 
to  a  human  weakness  of  curiosity  under  the 
circumstances.      Here    was    the    basic    material 


258       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

for  a  novel  on  the  Mormons;  letters  from  one 
pal  to  another,  letters  from  girls,  sweet  letters, 
despairing  letters,  telegrams.  Technically  there 
is  not  supposed  to  be  polygamy  any  more,  and 
legally  there  is  not,  but  in  reality  something  of 
the  sort  goes  on,  as  may  be  judged  from  the 
following  letter  I  transcribe,  one  of  a  packet  I 
brought  from  Cardston. 

S  p, 

Dear , 

I  received  your  letter  written  on  the 
21st  from  Ladysmith,  B.C.,  yesterday,  but  I 
worked  late  last  night  and  I  had  an  answer 
to  one  of  Ruth's  letters  to  write  that  I  had  put 
off  for  a  week.  So  it  was  pretty  near  time  to 
get  up  rather  than  to  go  to  bed,  but  I  will  just 
drop  a  hurried  line  to  let  you  know  I  still  live. 

I  sure  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  able  to  save 
a  little  because  I  also  am  trying  to  save  a  few 
pennies  also  and  it  sure  comes  hard.  I  also  am 
glad  to  hear  you  are  in  a  business  that  you  like 
but  you  failed  to  tell  me  just  what  your  line  of 
selling  is.  What  do  you  sell?  buck  handker- 
chiefs or  iron  toothpicks.  Does  Dan  travel 
with  you  also.      It  sure  is  great  to  be  able  to 


A    VISIT    TO    THE    MORMONS  259 

see  a  lot  of  the  world  at  some  one  else's  expense 

and    your    pleasure.      I    suppose    S d    is 

about  like  Vancouver;  rainy  and  not  worth  a 
dam.  It  sure  has  rained  a  lot  here  in  the  last 
few  weeks.  I  believe  we  have  had  more  rain 
here  this  month  than  Utah  has  in  a  year. 

About  my  wife  in  Utah.  I  receive  letters 
regularly.  Eight  or  nine  days  apart  as  regular 
as  8  o'clock  comes  in  the  morning.  Every 
8  or  9  days  I  get  a  letter  and  just  that 
often  I  get  a  letter  from  home  also.  I  am 
going  to  try  to  get  a  vacation  and  get  enough 
money  to  take  me  back  to  Utah  next  summer. 
I  don't  know  if  I  can  or  not  because  I  will 
have  to  have  an  operation  on  my  nose  right 
away  because  I  always  have  a  cold  as  it  is.  If 
I  do  not  keep  on  having  this  cold  I  now  have 
I  will  not  have  the  operation,  but  if  it  does  not 
leave  me  pretty  soon  I  will  have  the  bone  taken 
out  and  doubtless  lose  my  chance  of  getting 
home. 

I  sure  am  glad  you  appreciate  Peggy  by 
now.  You  know,  old  Pal,  that  you  never  miss 
the  water  till  the  well  runs  dry,  and  it  sure  is 
true  when  a  fellow  leaves  his  friends  and  is  out 
alone.     You  sure  appreciate  what  you  did  have 


26o      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

when  it  is  gone  completely.  I  believe  that  a 
fellow  must  live  a  life  like  we  are  to  really 
appreciate  the  good  things  in  life  anyhow.  If 
we  did  not  taste  of  the  sour  things  the  sweet 
ones  would  seem  sour  to  us.  By  gosh  it  sure 
is  true  in  one  respect  I  miss  some  one  to  darn 
my  sox.  I  try  to  do  it  myself  but  it  is  slow 
tvork  and  I  get  so  (nervous?)  Try  and  im- 
agine me  sitting  all  night  darning  sox.  It  sure 
is  a  bellina  (  ?  hellish)  job.     I  don't  like  it  at  all. 

Well,  old  pal,  I  have  a  Missouri  wife  now  so 

S d     seems     to    be     a     pretty    good    place 

after  all.     She  is  a  girl  I  met  in  church  and  is 

about  the  size  and  looks  about  like  Ruth  W . 

Some  girl  I  will  say.  We  have  been  to  a 
couple  of  parties  and  to  a  couple  of  shows  in 
two  weeks  beside  being  at  her  place  all  day 
last  Sunday.  Sunday  we  are  going  to  have  a 
picnic  and  take  a  few  pictures,  and  Monday 
night  a  large  masquerade  party  is  on  and  we 
are  going  to  it  also.  So  you  see  I  stop  her 
right  off  and  she  don't  object  either,  I  don't 
believe. 

I  wrote  W a  letter  on  the  3rd  of  this 

month  and  as  yet  I  have  not  received  a  letter. 
I  guess  he  wanted  to  have  a  good  time  while 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS       261 

his  "heaven"  lasts,  and  I  don't  blame  him 
either.  I  believe  he  is  a  little  worried  over  his 
mission  and  rather  hates  to  go,  but  I  believe  he 
will  be  alright. 

I  am  getting  along  fine  here.  I  order  all 
the  shoes  here  so  I  am  the  shoe  desk  manager. 
The  boss  gives  me  all  the  shoe  mail,  and  I  just 
order  what  I  want  and  leave  the  rest.  It  is  quite 
a  large  job,  but  our  store  is  not  quite  as  large 
as  Salt  Lake's,  but  the  shoe  department  could 
keep  a  regular  man  busy.  So  you  see  I  am 
doing  fine.  To-morrow  is  pay-day  and  I  also 
get  a  nice  raise,  so  I  have  no  kick  except  to 
darn  my  sox.  They  are  the  greatest  worry  I 
have  had. 

Well,  old  pal,  I  gave  this  letter  and  your  last 
one  pretty  good  service  considering  all  the 
work  we  have  now  that  the  winter  business  is 
just  opening  up.  Here  it  is  after  12.30  again, 
so  I  will  go  to  bed  and  get  up  again  at  6  a.  m. 
Try  to  be  good,  old  pal,  and  don't  do  anything 
I  wouldn't — Your  old  pal, 

Ed. 

You  cannot  learn  much  of  the  ways  of  the 
Mormons    by    asking    them,    but    when    one    of 


262      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

them  leaves  a  whole  packet  of  correspondence 
behind  him  in  a  hotel  he  "sure  is"  giving 
things  away. 

We  walked  up  to  the  Temple  at  three  in  the 
afternoon,  the  designated  time  when  visitors 
are  shown  round,  and  punctually  at  that  hour 
the  doors  were  opened  and  the  curious  were 
admitted. 

"Wherever  we  locates  we  builds  temples," 
said  the  guide,  a  curious  old  fellow,  so  illiterate 
that  he  strewed  the  temple  floor  with  his  aitches, 
an  Englishman  from  the  provinces,  squat,  con- 
fidential, insinuating.  "This  is  the  eighth 
Mormon  Temple,"  said  he.  "The  ninth  is  now 
rising  in  Phoenix,  Arizona." 

The  visitors  were  mostly  farm-women,  and 
Vachel  and  I  looked  like  a  couple  of  tramps  in 
their  midst.  Our  clothes  hung  on  us;  we  held 
in  our  hands  a  couple  of  the  most  weather- 
beaten  of  old  hats.  I  was  the  "big  un"  and 
Vachel  was  the  "little  un."  We  looked  to 
have  a  little  less  intelligence  than  gopher- 
rats. 

"The  'ole  edifiss  is  of  stone,"  said  the  guide, 
"and  the  foundation  is  of  rock  and  concrete. 
There's  not  five  dollars'  worth  of  wood  in  the 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS      263 

construction.      All    the    wood    you    see    is    hak- 


sessories." 


"Are  all  the  temples  built  of  stone  only?" 
I  asked  cautiously,  with  the  air  of  a  stone-mason 
out  of  a  job. 

"No,"  said  he.  "Each  is  built  on  a  seprit 
plan." 

"  'Ere,"  said  he,  turning  to  the  rest  of  the 
company,  "  'ere  we  seals.  This  'ere  room  is  for 
ordinances  only.  No,  we  don't  worship  in  the 
Temple.  It's  not  used  for  public  worship.  You 
see  the  red-brick  building  as  you  came  up  to 
the  Temple.  That  is  the  Tabernacle  where 
public  worship  is  held,  and  that  is  free  to  all. 
But  'ere  in  the  Temple  we  'as  the  ordinances 
and  the  meditations." 

The  guide  was  naturally  a  Mormon,  and  as 
he  showed  us  around  I  thought  his  main  objects 
were  to  tell  us  nothing  while  pretending  to  tell 
us  all,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  to  make 
converts  among  the  women.  He  did  all  he 
could  to  interest  the  latter  in  the  cooking  and 
lighting  and  warming  and  washing  arrange- 
ments. 

"You  'ave  'ere  the  electric  stoves  to  cook 
the   meals.     You   couldn't  keep   running  in   and 


264      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

out  of  the  Temple  in  yer  sacred  garments  to 
get  meals  at  resterongs,  so  we  cooks  'ere.  But 
there  can  be  no  smell  of  cooking — as  this 
exhaust  takes  all  the  smell  away  out  of  the 
building.  Very  convenient,  eh,  ain't  it?  We've 
had  over  ten  thousand  applications  from  women 
to  come  and  cook  in  the  Temple." 

The  farm-women  giggled  appreciatively. 
The  guide  led  them  on  to  the  laundering 
establishment.  As  the  Mormons  wear  secret 
underlinen  with  signs,  they  naturally  don't  care 
to  send  their  laundry  out  to  wash.  And  in  the 
Temple  we  were  given  to  understand  every 
man  and  woman  wore  special  white  garments. 
Consequently  there  would  be  much  laundering. 
But  all  was  to  be  done  by  the  latest  machinery, 
driven  by  electric  power.  "No  hand-work,  no 
scrubbing,  no  drudgery  and  gettin'  your  fingers 
red  and  'ard,"  said  the  guide.  "Then,  when 
the  wash  is  done,  hpp,  in  they  go  to  the  drying 
chamber,  and  in  a  few  seconds  the  are  suffi- 
ciently dry  to  be  taken  out  and  ironed  on  the 
electric  irons." 

For  a  moment  it  was  like  being  at  an  ideal 
home  exhibition.  "Then  the  radiators,"  said 
the  guide,   "you  see,  they  don't  project  into  the 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS      265 

rooms,    but    are    fixed   in    the    walls    dead    level 
with  the  surface  of  the  walls." 

"Of  course  the  Temple  'asn't  got  its  upol- 
stery  in  yet,  but  in  every  room  the  furniture 
will  be  all  of  a  piece  with  the  inlay  wood  of  the 
walls.  If  the  walls  is  oak  the  furniture  will  be 
oak  to  match;  if  it's  bird's-eye  maple,  the 
furniture  '11  be  bird's-eye  maple;  if  it's  Cir- 
cassian mahogany  the  furniture  will  be  Circas- 
sian mahogany  too.  Every  room  will  have  its 
colour  scheme.  'Ere  you  see  the  thermometer. 
Now  the  temperature  of  the  building  will  be 
regulated.  It  won't  matter  wot  the  weather  is 
like  outside,  it  will  be  controlled  inside.  The 
engineer  will  'ave  'is  orfice  outside  the  Temple 
and  don't  never  need  come  in.  All  they  'as  to 
do  is  telephone  'im  to  raise  the  temperature 
ten  degrees  or  lower  it  five  and  he'll  do  it." 

"We  comes  to  the  baths  (they  are  pretty 
elaborate).  " 'Ere's  the  men's  section,  over 
there's  the  women's.  You  natcherally  bathe 
first  of  all  when  you  enter  the  Temple  and 
remove  every  speck  of  dust  or  dirt  from  your 
body.  And  'ere  are  the  robing-rooms  where 
spotless  garments  is  waiting  you  to  put  on. 
You  walks  all  in  white  wherever  you  go  in  the 


266       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

Temple,  and  when  it  'as  been  consecrated  no 
more  folks  will  ever  go  in  it  in  ordinary  clothes 
like  as  you  and  me  to-day." 

The  Temple  proved  to  be  the  last  word  in 
luxury  and  modern  convenience.  In  the  most 
elegant  club  in  London,  Paris,  or  New  York  I 
have  not  seen  such  luxury  and  sensual  comfort 
as  was  in  this  Temple  in  the  rough  wild  west. 
Every  room  was  inlaid  with  precious  woods. 
The  baths  and  robing-rooms  were  worthy  of  a 
Sultan,  the  lounge  and  one-piece  carpets  all 
suggested  a  material  heaven.  The  guide 
showed  us  the  vast  font  reposing  on  the  life- 
size  figures  of  twelve  oxen,  the  symbols  of 
the  twelve  tribes  of  Israel.  This  font  was  the 
centre  of  a  stately  chamber  with  galleries 
running  round  it.  From  the  galleries  the 
friends  of  the  candidates  could  watch  the 
ceremony  of  immersion.  The  font  was  large 
enough  to  baptize  families  at  once. 

"And  you  can  be  baptized  many  times," 
said  the  guide.  "For  yourself,  then  for  your 
friends,  and  then  for  the  dead — for  any  one  you 
would  like  to  have  saved." 

"Baptized  for  the  dead?"  said  one  of  the 
women    in    horror.       "Yes,"    said    he.       "You 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS       267 

think  it  strange,  but  the  early  Christians  all 
used  to  do  it.  Just  turn  up  First  Corinthians, 
chapter  fifteen.  "What  shall  they  do  which 
are  baptized  for  the  dead,  if  the  dead  rise  not  at 
all?  Why  are  they  then  baptized  for  the  dead?' 
which  shows  plainly  that  the  apostles  -recom- 
mended it." 

"Is  the  water  cold?"  asked  a  farm-girl, 
timorously. 

"Cold,"  said  the  guide  ingratiatingly,  "oh, 
no !  It's  warmed.  It's  just  nice.  I  should 
say   about   the   temperature   of  warm  milk." 

"Oh!"  "Oh!"  There  was  chorus  of  ap- 
proval from  the  women,  who  had  been  con- 
sidering the  whole  matter  from  a  purely  personal 
point  of  view. 

We  were  then  led  to  the  Creation  Room,  the 
Garden  of  Eden  Room,  and  the  Earth-natural 
Room,  all  adorned  with  works  of  art.  There 
were  pictures  of  the  world  before  Creation,  and 
then  of  each  stage  in  the  process  of  Creation. 

"God  don't  love  chaos.  'E's  a  great  organ- 
iser. 'E  organised  it,  and  'e  divided  the  water 
from  the  hearth  and  gave  us  light  and  made 
the  hanimal  creation — yes,  all  that  lives  and 
breeves,"    said   the   guide.      "  'Ere   we   meet   to 


268       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 


meditate  on  the  Creation.  Isn't  it  a  beutiful 
room?" 

Some  one  asked  him  if  the  artists  were 
Mormons.  "Yes,  all  of  them,"  said  he,  and 
then  went  on — 

"You'd  think  it  gets  stuffy  in  'ere.  But  no; 
we  'as  the  hair  taken  out  and  washed  and  then 
returned.  It's  a  new  device  for  washing  the 
hair." 

We  passed  to  Eden.  Here  were  pictures  of 
the  whole  animal  creation  in  benevolent  and 
sentimental  happiness;  the  tiger  browsing  beside 
the  lamb,  and  the  lion  and  the  giddy  goat 
frisking  around. 

The  guide  purveyed  the  story  of  the  Garden 
of  Eden,  but  left  out  Adam  and  Eve,  and  I 
walked  away  from  him  to  wander  round  and 
seek  the  portraits  of  our  first  parents.  They 
were  not  included.  But  I  found  that  the  paint- 
ing of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil 
and  of  the  Tree  of  Life  were  concave  at  the 
base,  and  that  there  was  a  recess  and  an  alcove 
to  each.  So  there  was  a  place  for  a  living 
Adam  and  Eve  to  sit,  side  by  side,  when  the 
meditation  on  the  Garden  was  going  on. 
My   idea   is   that  Eve   would  be   seated   in   the 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS      269 

Tree  of  Life  and  Adam  in  the  Tree  of  Knowl- 
edge. But  that  is  surmise.  The  guide  would 
not  tell  us  what  the  alcoves  were  for,  but  in  the 
eye  of  curious  imagination  I  saw  Adam  and 
Eve  sitting  there  in  primitive  innocence  whilst 
the  hearts  of  the  elders  were  inditing  of  a  good 
matter. 

From  Eden  we  went  to  the  Earth-natural, 
which  was  a  hideous  place  where  every  animal 
was  depicted  with  a  vicious  expression.  A 
large  mad  coyote  or,  was  it  a  hyena?  seemed 
to  control  the  atmosphere  of  the  chamber. 

11  'Ere  we  'ave  the  Hearth  after  sin  'as  crept 
in,"  said  the  guide.  "  'Ere  is  life  as  we  know 
it,  full  of  sin  which  you  can't  escape.  You  can 
all  learn  a  great  deal  from  them  pictures.  Think 
of  Hadam  and  Eve.  'Ave  you  ever  thought 
of  it — 'ow  God  gave  them  the  garden  of  Eden, 
and  of  the  'experience'  'e  made  them  'ave  there. 
Isn't  it  true  about  us?  'E  didn't  mean  that 
nothin'  should  ever  'appen  to  us.  'E  brought  us 
into  the  world  that  we  might  'ave  an  experience." 

So  we  went  on  to  the  Marriage  Room,  which 
was  entirely  bare,  and  no  one  could  say  what  it 
would  be  like  when  the  decorations  and  the 
furniture   had  been   added.      I   judged   it   time 


270      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

for  me  to  cease  being  Simple  Simon,  so  I  asked 
the  guide  as  humbly  as  I  could  whether  the 
marriages  were  legal  when  the  ceremony  was 
performed. 

"Yes,"  said  he.      "You  'ave  a  legal  marriage." 

"But  polygamy?"  I  queried,  and  I  saw  his 
eyes  flame. 

"Polygamy  'as  been  done  away  with  long 
ago  when  Utah  was  received  into  the  Union," 
he  answered  in  a  gruff  way. 

"And  what  happened  to  the  other  wives 
when  it  was  abolished?"  asked  some  one  else 
very  softly.  But  the  guide  did  not  reply. 
Instead  he  began  to  hurry  us  out  of  the 
building.  We  had  only  seen  a  third  of  it 
and  were  loth  to  go.  But  there  was  nothing 
for  it.  We  managed  to  get  a  last  glimpse  of 
an  assembly  hall  with  large  frescoes  on  the 
walls,  depicting  Christ  distributing  the  Bread 
and  the  Wine  to  the  Mound  Builders,  or 
Indians  of  South  America,  and  underneath 
was  written  III.  Nephi  15.  Another  fresco 
had  reference  to  the  Book  of  Josiah,  which  is 
part  of  Mormon  Holy  Writ — -found  by  Joseph 
Smith,  written  on  gold  plates. 

The   guide   hurried   us    to    the    door.      "I've 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS       271 

some  pictures  of  the  Temple  for  sale,"  said  he 
to  the  farm-women.  But  they  seemed  all  to 
have  been  scared  by  my  question  about  poly- 
gamy. Vachel  and  I  stopped  to  look  at  the 
pictures.  After  all,  they  were  only  picture- 
postcards  of  the  exterior.      We  bought  three. 

"Good  b'ye,"  said  I.  "And  much  obliged." 
And  I  offered  him  my  hand.  He  gave  me 
his  left. 

"Good  b'ye,"  said  Vachel.  "Most  in- 
teresting." And  he  offered  him  his  hand. 
The  guide  gave  him  his  left  also. 

"A  left-handed  shake,"  said  Vachel,  medi- 
tatively, as  we  went  down  the  steps.  "You 
know  what  that  means." 

"No?" 

"That  means— Go  to  Hell!" 

We  were  much  intrigued  by  all  this,  and  found 
out  that  Adam  is  God  to  the  Mormons,  and 
Christ  only  one  of  a  series  which  culminated 
in  Brigham  Young.  Mormonism  is  the  story 
of  a  passionate  sensual  man  with  a  fake  religion, 
a  leader,  however,  of  men  and  women,  capable 
of  starting  a  church,  murdered  and  then  suc- 
ceeded by   the   great   Brigham.      The    Mormon 


272       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

community,  persecuted  ever,  loathed  and  de- 
tested yet  not  destroyed,  plunged  ever  west- 
ward through  the  deserts  with  new  revelations 
all  the  way,  always,  however,  being  overtaken 
by  the  tide  of  other  pioneers  and  chased  again. 
They  were  secret,  and  wanted  to  be  secret. 
But  the  United  States  always  overtook  them. 
Now  they  have  compromised  in  many  ways 
and  are  not  persecuted,  and  they  multiply 
and  spread  and  propagandise.  They  are  dis- 
ciplined. In  politics  they  all  vote  one  way — as 
ordered.    They  begin  to  be  proud  of  America. 

Vachel  and  I  went  up  to  the  Temple  at 
night.  It  looked  like  a  place  produced  by 
enchantment — the  highest  thing  on  the  highest 
eminence  of  the  widespread  but  low-built  city 
of  Cardston.  Clouds  hid  the  top  of  it.  There 
was  no  one  near  but  ourselves,  apparently  not 
even  a  watchman.  The  massive  gates  were 
locked  and  barred,  and  above  them  gleamed 
electric  lanterns  in  large  and  graceful  M's. 

We  have  learned  an  elementary  lesson  about 
them. 

"Remember  that,  Vachel,"  said  I.  "M  for 
Mormon." 

"The    guide     said    a    true    word,"    said    the 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  MORMONS       273 

poet.  "God  sent  us  into  the  world  that  we 
might  have  an  experience." 

With  that  our  tramping  ended.  We  left  our 
pine-staffs  leaning  against  a  Cardston  wall. 
We  slept  in  beds  again  and  bought  our  coffee 
at  a  shop.  Gathering  prose  invaded  the  clear 
blue  of  our  poetry.  Some  sadness,  like  a 
shadow,  settled  on  us.  And  it  was  good  b'ye 
to  the  mountains. 


Thy  Kingdom  come,  O  Lord, 

As  once  it  came, 

May  it  come  again! 

For  once  it  came  upon  the  mountains, 

It  came  upon  the  wings  of  the  morning 

Amid  the  flowers  and  adown  the  streams, 

It  came  into  our  eyes, 

It  came  into  our  hearts. 

Thy  Kingdom  come,  O  Lord, 

As  once  it  came, 

May  it  come  again! 


XXXVIII.  BLOOM  FOR  EVER, 
O  REPUBLIC ! 

We  crossed  the  line  again  and  returned  to  the 
United  States.  And  then  we  went  to  the  city 
of  St.  Paul,  and  we  saw  the  falls  where 
Minnehaha  and  Hiawatha  met.  We  stood 
on  the  high  bank  of  the  Mississippi  and  con- 
sidered meditatively  the  mounds  of  the  mound- 
builders  there.  What  more  impressive  symbol 
for  a  world  -  traveller  than  these  pre  -  historic 
mounds  —  there  before  the  Indians  came  — 
emblems  of  the  infinite  forgotten  past  of  man! 
Then  we  went  to  Chicago.  We  saw  the 
beautiful  Wrigley   building  which   has    risen   to 

274 


BLOOM  FOR  EVER!  275 

look  from  drab  Chicago  over  Michigan  Lake — 
a  building  raised  by  the  profits  of  gum !  Vachel 
introduced  me  to  the  first  sponsor  of  his  verse, 
Harriet  Monroe,  of  "Poetry,"  and  he  described 
to  me  how  he  and  W.  B.  Yeats  once  divided 
the  annual  poetry  prize  of  Chicago,  and  how  he 
was  to  have  read  aloud  the  prize  poem — 
"General  William  Booth  Enters  Heaven,"  but 
to  the  surprise  of  the  company  assembled  gave 
his  new,  hitherto  unheard-of  work  "The  Congo," 
a  poem  which  at  that  time  must  have  been 
dumfounding  in  its  novelty.  Then  Yeats,  who 
seemed  to  have  snubbed  every  one  including  the 
poet  himself,  made  a  very  generous  speech  in 
favour  of  Lindsay's  genius.  And  we  met 
Chicago's  poet,  Carl  Sandburg,  a  rugged 
Scandinavian  with  brown  hair  who  claimed 
me  as  a  "Nordic"  also.  And  he  carried  a 
large  and  old  guitar  on  which  he  thrummed 
when  reciting  his  poems.  He  has  heard  Negro 
Blues  in  the  South,  and  loves  the  coloured  folk, 
and  has  a  whole  repertoire  of  blues  which  he 
will  sing  you  if  you  will.  I  had  a  glass  of  beer 
with  Sandburg  in  Milwaukee,  the  only  glass  of 
anything  of  the  kind  offered  me  this  time  in  these 
dry   United   States.      I   met   Ridgely   Torrance, 


276      TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

gentle  and  whimsical,  with  one  long  lock  of  hair 
on  his  head  like  a  Russian  khokhol.  Curiously 
enough,  he  also  had  been  enchanted  by  the 
Negroes  and  knew  more  about  them  than  us 
all,  and  he  read  poetry  to  us.  There  I  met 
beautiful  Zona  Gale  of  Portage  whom,  it  is  said, 
nearly  every  literary  man  who  ever  met  her 
has  at  some  time  or  other  loved.  And  meeting 
Zona  I  met  Lulu  Bett.  We  met  delectable 
Isidora,  once  queen  of  Springfield,  now  queen 
of  another  city.  And  we  stayed  with  Mrs. 
William  Vaughan  Moody,  widow  of  that 
dramatist  and  poet  who  wrote  "The  Great 
Divide"  and  "The  Fire-Bringer."  We  were  a 
rough-looking  couple  to  be  a  lady's  guests,  but 
Harriet  Moody  loves  the  whole  writing  world 
for  her  husband's  sake  and  took  us  in,  and  I 
found  in  her  what  so  many  know — a  vivid 
personality,  endlessly  kind.  And  couldn't  she 
cook!  We  loved  her  for  her  poetry  and  we 
loved  her  for  her  pies. 

We  went  to  Springfield,  Illinois,  and  there  we 
had  a  general  clean-up  and  our  mosquito- 
netting  came  back  from  the  laundry  marked 
"Lace;    two    pieces."       I   visited    all    Vachel's 


BLOOM  FOR  EVER!  277 

cronies  and  friends  and  acquaintances  and 
enemies,  and  there  were  articles  about  us  in  the 
Register  and  Journal  every  day  for  a  fortnight, 
and  I  spoke  to  the  Radical  Kaffee  Klatsch  for 
the  celebrated  Isidor  Levine,  and  to  the  Conser- 
vative Luncheon  Club  for  the  ubiquitous  Elmer 
Neale,  and  I  spoke  to  the  Via  Christi  class  for 
Mrs.  Lindsay,  and  to  the  High  School  for 
Vachel's  old  teacher,  and  to  the  readers  in  the 
Public  Library  for  Martha  Wilson.  I  had  all 
the  books  on  Russia  put  on  a  table,  and  I 
discoursed  upon  them.  The  most-read  book 
was  The  Brothers  Karamazof,  which  looked  as 
if  it  had  been  in  every  bed  in  Springfield.  We 
went  to  the  Negro  churches  together;  we  talked 
to  Charlie  Gibbs  the  famous  coloured  attorney. 
We  were  entertained  by  Mrs.  Warren — Drink- 
water's  Springfield  hostess.  We  could  not  visit 
the  Governor — he  was  under  arrest.  But  we 
visited  the  unsuccessful  candidate  for  the  govern- 
ship  at  the  last  election.  Vachel  discoursed  on 
small-town  politics  while  Mrs.  Sherman  made 
us  meringues.  The  poet  introduced  me  to  his 
sweethearts,  who  were  of  all  ages,  from  twelve 
to  eighty.  I  made  friends  with  beautiful 
little  Mary  Jane  Allen,  who  danced  and  glided  into 


278       TRAMPING  WITH  A  POET 

and  out  of  our  presence,  and  smiled  at  us  and 
lifted  her  child's  heart  to  us.  And  we  called  on 
"Judith  the  Dancer,"  who  taught  little  Mary 
Jane.  Always  along  the  Springfield  streets  the 
sight  of  the  children  exhilarated  my  companion 
— "Stephen,  I  just  love  them  to  death,"  said  he. 

I  got  to  be  very  well  known.  I  had  a  sort 
of  royal  progress  in  the  street,  questioned  and 
smiled  at  on  all  hands.  "  'Scuse  me,"  they 
Would  say,  "those  boots,  did  you  tramp  in  them?" 
or,  "How  d'ye  do?  My  little  girl  heard  you 
give  your  talk  in  the  school  yesterday.  She's 
full  of  it;  it  was  mighty  good  of  you." 

I  came  to  love  the  people  of  this  little  city, 
and  to  see  the  place  with  Vachel's  creative 
eyes.  Surely  no  one  ever  encountered  such 
kindness,  such  real  warmth  of  heart,  as  I  did 
there.  It  was  very  moving  for  one  who  had 
come  right  out  of  the  bitterness  and  quarrels  of 
Europe  and  out  of  the  loneliness  of  London. 
They  know  something  about  living  which  we 
are  forgetting.  They  taught  me  much,  and  the 
poet  has  taught  me  much  also — the  bounty  of 
good-humour  and  of  unfailing  kindness  and 
warmth.  I  love  those  who've  got  the  strength 
of    heart    to    lift    their    hands    to    take    yours, 


BLOOM    FOR   EVER!  279 

who    open    their    mouths    actually    to    speak    to 
you. 

So  I  cannot  tell  the  poet  what  I  owe  him, 
and  he  says  he  cannot  tell  me  what  he  owes  me. 
We  made  one  final  quest  together,  and  that 
was  to  Salem  where  Abraham  Lincoln  lived  a 
poor  man's  life,  and  learned  mathematics  from 
Dominie  Graham  and  fell  in  love  with  the 
daughter  of  his  landlord — unforgettable  Anne 
Rutledge.  And  we  paused  before  the  massive 
block  of  granite  which  marks  Anne's  grave, 
strewn  otherwise  with  flowers,  and  refulgent 
with  thoughts.  And  we  read  Masters's  beauti- 
ful lines  inscribed  over  the  grave : 

I  am  Anne  Rutledge  who  sleep 

beneath  these  weeds, 
Beloved  in  life  of  Abraham  Lincoln, 
Wedded  to  him,  not  through  union 
But  through  separation. 
Bloom  for  ever,  O  Republic 
From  the  dust  of  my  bosom ! 

(6) 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT   LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


1 


MAY  5     194' 
Y  %  \  1942 

m 5  ^43 


1 8  W3^ 

- 


!J?(^AND£SKD 


A.M. 

I  7]»^  'QUI 


a  j 


♦». 


P  M 


F?  E  C  E  I  V  E  C| 

MAIN  LOAN  DESK  ,fe 

R9  1970 


du 


N  23  1952 
tHAY  2i 


NOV  1 1  1984 

nPC  4      1959     a.m.  ^  n 


MAY  17 


Form  l.     ■ 
•2'<m  -12,    3D    :  . 


Jft^7WI 


*7- 


P.M. 

3141516 


.\0 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  525  097    2 


I  III  III 

11 


II 


MM 

iijl 


i 


i  !. 


IL 


\i 


1 


'!'.-., 


1 


I 


q  i  pjij!  |    p 

ill 


lip 

itHllIllii 


iiitintiiiiiiiiffiiifiifilHlii  \ 


!  Hi  ili 


III 


111 


i    i 


i      111 


!  ! 


